


Bite Down

by EclipseWing



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Blood, Cannibalism, Character Death, Death, Death Wish, Dubious Consent In Regards To Werewolf Bites, Full Shift Werewolves, Gen, It Happens Pre-Story But Is Discussed, M/M, Panic Attacks, Peter is Literally the Dubious Tag, Post S4, Power Dynamics, Reckless Behavior, Traumatic Death of a Canon Character, Traumatic Memory Repression, Zombie Apocalypse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-19
Updated: 2015-08-25
Packaged: 2018-04-15 10:56:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 27,586
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4604127
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EclipseWing/pseuds/EclipseWing
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Stiles is forced to survive the zombie apocalypse with a sociopathic murdering werewolf for company.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. stick the pieces together

**Author's Note:**

> So yeah - zombie apocalypse Steter - because my Teen Wolf zombie apocalypse started off as Stydia, but then turned into Stiles & Peter and I used the situation merely as an excuse to get two characters who canonically don’t like each other to hang out together. Some form of a relationship is constructed but it's damn dysfunctional and unhealthy because no relationship between Stiles and Peter is ever going to be nice and happy (that's probably why I like reading it even if half the time Peter is too nice and Stiles is out of character.)
> 
> All titles from Bastille's (vs. Haim) 'Bite Down'.
> 
> Warnings at end.

It’s always been luck of the draw as to what supernatural monster the Nemeton throws at them next. First its psychotic demon foxes. Then it’s a deputy with a penchant for fire. Then harpies. On one memorable occasion there is even a griffon nesting in the preserve.

Next it’s zombies.

This is not a fucking joke anymore.

Stiles sometimes looks back and wonders if that’s why Jackson and Isaac and Danny and Cora and Derek all got out of town while they still could. While they were still alive.

Stiles has buried too many bodies already. The last thing he wanted was to bury his father as well.

 

Okay, so maybe this one wasn’t just Beacon Hills, the literally Beacon to the good, the bad and the monstrous. Maybe it was a mutated virus. Maybe it was a plant with deadly spores engineered by the government to be a weapon. Maybe it’s a supernatural spell gone horribly, terribly wrong.

Stiles doesn’t know and if he’s honest, he doesn’t really care. Not anymore. Maybe at first when the streets started swarming with the undead in all their glorious forms of decay but now?

Now he’s got bigger things to worry about.

The thing is - the Beacon for the Supernatural? - is a Beacon for all the undead as well. They swim, fly, run, _crawl_ their way to the town as if it’s the answer to their prayers. And that is not Stiles’ opinion having encountered one too many of the things - it’s pure fact. Statistically there are more zombies around the West Coast than the East.

It’s a stupid idea to stay. Everybody knows that, even those who didn’t know anything about the supernatural have understood that it’s in their best interest to leave town and seek safer communities that are already beginning to form. Beacon Hills was weird enough before the zombie apocalypse hit…

Rumour is they’re already building a wall around New York.

It’s a stupid idea to stay. That’s why Stiles would have been on the first plane or bus or train or whatever mode of transport out of there possible along with the few living friends he has left, had it not been for one slight issue.

He remembers chaos. He remembers that he was there, that he was going to leave, Scott by his side, Liam bouncing his leg nervously as he waited. Kira looks like she wanted to clutch a hold of Scott’s hand, but is too nervous to do so with her parents and his mother right there. Malia is chewing her fingernails again, her dad - _adopted_ dad - nearby. Lydia and her mother are slightly behind them, and both look scared but Lydia… Lydia looks pale. Ill. She can barely sleep for the screams that her nightmares and visions tear out of her.

Every now and then she flinches, batting at the air as if she can still hear the buzzing of flies around her.

The buzzing of death.

It’s okay. For that single moment it’s okay. Stiles is trying to pretend they’re all going to be fine, the world’s gone to shit anyway, it’s not like they have to worry about their evil tree anymore, they can leave and never look back; they just have to make it out of town.

Stop. Freeze the picture there. Stiles wishes he could go back to that moment and rewind it, keep it frozen forever. But he can’t. Life isn’t a video.

Life goes on.

Play. Stiles spins around, looking for his dad.

His father. The Sheriff. The man responsible for all those people.

Of course his father wasn’t going to leave without making sure they all got to safety.

 

He can’t remember what happens.

That’s always the thing that will irk him the most. He keeps awake at night trying in vain to remember anything that happened afterwards.

He knows the aftermath. He can remember the empty car parks, full of burning cars and corpses both dead and less-dead. He can remember running and thinking _‘thank god for all the supernatural creatures that have chased after him over the years’_. He can remember hiding out in the first house he found, collapsing in the dark and letting the panic and fear finally overwhelm him, no Lydia to kiss him out of this one.

He can’t remember the moment the rest of the pack must have left, while he was still looking for his dad.

He can’t remember where he found the gun either, nor why there is red on his t-shirt.

He can’t remember the moment he found his father, but he knows he must have because he has his badge, bent and battered, still flecked with dark rust stains of blood.

 

Stiles knows the truth is he doesn’t remember because he doesn’t want to. And while he lies awake trying to recollect, he never tries that hard and he goes to sleep a little easier because of it.

 

It’s a little off-putting being the only living person in a necropolis.

Logically he can’t be the only one. But if there are others they’re getting picked off faster than Stiles can meet them.

The town is crawling with bodies that have rotted away to various states of decay before stopping. _It’s a stasis spell,_ he thinks, _it must be_. He’s read articles that explain how in a normal zombie apocalypse no dead body would last beyond the period it took them to break down. Yet while the dead certainly are disgusting and they tend to leave the occasional lump of greenish looking bodily fluid around, they’re still mostly intact.

They’re still mostly dangerous.

A baseball bat made of aluminium can only shatter so many undead bones before he final realises that it’s him versus them. Broken bones aren’t lethal.

Guns and knives are.

He raids the police station. He would raid the Argent’s apartment, but Chris moved ages ago. He picks up what he can in terms of ammunition and weapons. He talks to himself as if it might stave off the loneliness just that tiny bit.

Then he plans. He loads his jeep with what he can before realising that the vehicle isn’t going to make it out of town. And despite what the movies have said about zombie apocalypses, they never say how quickly the gas runs dry.

Time passes in a haze. He feels muted, trapped inside his own head. He’s not even sure if any of this is even real but he keeps going. Keeps fighting.

Scott and Lydia are in New York, it occurs to him one day of raiding a place for food. He’s considering grabbing a shopping cart just to carry it all, but knows that will only slow him down. It will make him a target. He feels like he’s the only human but he’s not. There are others out there with guns and cruel sneers and he knows better than to approach them.

He’s only eighteen.

He thinks. Or - fuck - is he nineteen already?

He can’t even tell that anymore.

Looking back Stiles will never know how he survived those first few months. Mostly by the skin of his teeth and a few close saves because in hindsight he was very, very lucky.

Luck, however, has a tendency to run out.

It's very clear to almost everyone other than Stiles that he's growing reckless. That is if there were even other people with him.

He's alone. That's the first hint that he's losing it. His friends are half-way across the country and his dad...

His dad is dead.

He has to admit it to himself sooner or later. His dad is dead because Stiles shot him.

His dad is dead and sooner or later Stiles will go the same way. He acquires weapons meant to protect him; a shotgun, his dad's glock, a knife or two or maybe half a dozen. For each one he starts planning for a contingency in which he gets bitten and he has to kill himself.

He'd planned for his death by zombie.

He doesn't plan for his death by the usual monster of the week.

 

Stiles gives Beacon Hills off as gone. There is no point hanging around, not now his friends are gone and his dad is dead. He packs a backpack - one of those large camping rucksacks meant to last weeks in the wilderness - and loads it with food, a few spare clothes, weapons and the few things he can't bear to leave behind. His dad's sheriff's badge. A crumpled picture of his mother and father.

Stiles is an orphan now.

With that thought hanging over his head he puts his back to the setting sun and walks.

 

He's still in Beacon County when the monster finds him. He thinks it’s a zombie so he prepares the shotgun. He's not expecting the speed of the monster. It crashes into him and he finds himself on his back, sprawled in the dirt. His shotgun is ripped from his hands.

Rolling to his feet, Stiles shoves himself upwards and runs. Trees blur past and he hears a single laugh and then he's on the ground again. A clawed hand sinks into his backpack, dragging him back to his feet no matter how much he claws at the soft earth. Stiles ditches the straps, rolling forwards and away but the monster is too fast. With a violent jerk Stiles is flung sideways, crashing bodily into a tree. He slides down, head spinning and the monster stands before him, examining its prey.

"Fresh meat..." a man leers at him looking sane and alive and-- "Haven't had fresh meat for ages. Not with all the dead walking around..." he sneers down at Stiles, and he has too many teeth and his eyes have a white glow--

"Cannibal," Stiles says, seconds before he realises, "Wendigo..."

"You're a clever one..." the man laughs, "Are you scared? Fresh meat tastes better scared."

Stiles isn't scared. He should be. But he has a gun in his belt and at least two blades to hand that he could grab... that he _should_ grab but there is a wendigo that looms above him and all the fight--

It drains out of him. It's inevitable. He is going to die - it might as well be sooner rather than later.

It’s going to kill him.

And Stiles--

Stiles drops his hand from where it had been edging towards his dad's gun and closes his eyes. _Finally_ , he thinks, waiting for the moment the wendigo lunges towards him with hands curled into claws, waiting for the moment its hand sinks into his flesh and _tears_ \--

There is a growl, deep and earth shaking and a rush of air.

His eyes fly open and when they do, it’s to see the wendigo in several little pieces, flying through the air. Its blood is dark and gunky, spread across the ground like a piece of abstract art. With a snarl its head goes flying and the human shape that just saved Stiles’ life shakes reddish wendigo blood off his claws.

 _Claws,_ Stiles realises: curled, slightly yellowed werewolf claws.

He's on his feet before he realises it, grabbing his dad's gun (he can't bear to think of it as his) and bringing it out in one swift movement.

The gun comes up, and he meets the bright beta-blue eyes of a werewolf.

Not just any werewolf, he realises, heart sinking in horror and panic. Because of course it would be _him_.

“How nice to see you again, _Stiles_.”

Peter Hale grins up at him, blinking his eyes back to human blue and rocking back, away from the shattered chest of the wendigo he just ripped open. He pulls out a handkerchief from somewhere - and seriously, a fucking hanky, asshole probably carries it around just for moments like this when he needs to clean his claws. The white cotton doesn’t stay white for long.

“You’re welcome,” he says, and Stiles suddenly realises he’s been standing there, staring, gun still pointed at Peter. The werewolf doesn’t appear intimidated, but still gestures at the weapon, “Do you mind pointing that… elsewhere?”

“How about not?” Stiles’ voice is rough from disuse. Sharp. Far too wary for a teenager.

“ _Stiles_ \--“ he doesn’t like the way the werewolf manages to molest his name, he might even change it just so Peter _can’t_ \-- “I would have thought you’d be far away by now, playing happy families with our true alpha.” There is visible venom in his tone when the werewolf mentions Scott, but Stiles ignores that. “So that only begs the question: why are _you_ still here?”

“Why are _you_?”

Peter stands. It’s not as intimidating as it should be, Stiles realises. He’s actually taller than the other man--

“I--“ Peter pauses, as the gun follows his movement. He holds out his hands as if to show he means no harm, the handkerchief balled up in one of them but Stiles doesn’t waver. Peter rolls his eyes, “They didn’t exactly bother to evacuate a prison full of dangerous supernatural creatures,” he sneers, “It was only a matter of time before the power went out.”

“But… the mountain ash…”

Peter raises one eyebrow, “A problem, true, but for once fire actually worked in my favour.” He grins, flashing a razor sharp fang, “Now, can you please point the gun elsewhere?”

Stiles doesn’t know what to do. He can’t even remember the last time he was alone with Peter. Probably back when Derek and Scott were trying to rescue Boyd and Cora from the bank. Back then he’d been harmless. Their former murdering alpha werewolf who had painted half the town red was now a beta who skulked in the shadows and made snarky comments.

He’s not anymore. He hasn’t been in a long time, maybe ever. Maybe it was all a pretence. Peter played the long game.

Stiles knows that. He knows exactly what Peter will do to get what he wants. He’s killed, sided with his enemies, attempted to kill Scott and manipulated his daughter.

He’s dangerous. Stiles knows that. He had _told_ Scott that.

He should have said something sooner. He should have made it clearer, done something himself…

With a snarl Peter lunges forwards. It’s not threatening, more like annoyance but Stiles reacts all the same. At least he would - but Peter grabs the arm holding the gun, knocking his hand up and twisting--

\--the gun falls to the ground, Stiles wincing at the throb in his hand but Peter doesn’t honestly think he’s only got the gun--

\--the knife slams into the werewolf’s side and Peter actually looks taken aback. He still manages to grab Stiles’ wrist, but Stiles doesn’t let go of the blade in Peter’s side.

“Stiles--“ Peter purrs, and he’s definitely changing his name to something with less sibilant consonants in it, “You can let go of the knife, or I can break your wrist and take it.”

Stiles needs his wrist. He can’t afford injuries, not in this world.

He lets go of the knife. Peter drags it out with a wet slurp and Stiles doesn’t even flinch at the blood. Peter eyes the blade, then Stiles who takes a few step backwards as if to bolt. Not that he’s going to - he can’t outrun a werewolf.

He wonders if Peter is going to kill him. It will be welcome, he thinks, but not as welcome as it would have been five minutes ago. The moment is gone, and there’s a new spark in him that wants to keep fighting. He keeps it there, kindles it because he knows he’s going to need that later.

Peter doesn’t kill him. Instead he wipes the knife blade clean with the cotton still scrunched in his hand. He twirls the blade around, admiring it, “If I give this back to you will you stab me again?” he asks, head tilting as he considers Stiles.

“Depends,” is all he can muster up. He’s honestly a bit disappointed in himself. He used to be able to give better banter than this.

“On what?”

“On if I think I would be successful the next time.”

Peter does a strange thing then. He throws his head up to the sky and _laughs_.

Stiles is honestly a bit freaked out.

“I forgot how much I enjoyed your company,” Peter says, still chuckling. He tosses the knife lazily in the air once, and then flips it towards Stiles. It thuds in the dirt by his feet, blade sinking into the soil. “Might as well keep your little blade,” the werewolf gestures to it, “You’re going to need it for more than chopping carrots.”

“What.” He can’t even form a question. It’s just a flat statement, showing his confusion as the older man watches him patiently.

Peter’s lip curls like it’s a private joke, “Eloquent,” he mocks, “Derek can form better sentences that that.”

Anger bubbles up, hot and fresh and Stiles has been alone for weeks, alone in his head with thoughts that are falling apart at the seams, falling into him and them and survive and that dark niggling at the back of his brain he never quite got rid of that tells him he’s good at this, that he was _made_ for this (“we chose you for a _reason_ , Stiles”).

“Well fuck you,” he spits, grabbing his knife from the soil, pausing to scoop up the gun and his backpack, staggering slightly under the weight before he rights himself and stalks off without looking back.

It's not as good an exit as he hoped but it gets the message across. He wants nothing to do with Peter.

He can feel Peter’s surprise, alarm even at his abruptness. Not because he can smell emotions or some bullshit, but because the werewolf bounces a little and then falls into step behind him. Stiles doesn’t turn. He doesn’t like having Peter at his back, he doesn’t _trust_ Peter. He half-expects the man to lose interest and go his own way but--

He doesn’t call the other man out on it either.


	2. got your claws buried deep

“Why are you following me?” he asks, several hours later when it’s become explicitly clear that Peter is not going to lose interest or wander off. The one time he did, the werewolf trotted back to him like a dog who had found a stick, except the thing Peter had found was a human hand and a lot of blood.

“You can’t tell?” Peter smiles. It’s all teeth. “For the pleasure of your company of course.”

Stiles stares at him, unimpressed.

“Wow,” Peter mocks, “I’m sure there was a sentence there, but you need to learn to open your mouth.”

“I don’t trust you,” he says, because what’s the worst the werewolf can do? Kill him? Like he hadn’t almost died enough already, “Even before you tried to kill Scott… we let you walk around like nothing ever happened. Like you hadn’t painted half the town red. Like you’re one of the good guys. You’re not one of the good guys.”

“But Stiles," Peter purrs, "neither are you."

He doesn’t take it as an insult if it was even meant to be one. It sounds like a compliment. He shrugs, “Good,” he says, “Because if you touch me, I will kill you, werewolf or not.”

Peter scoffs, "Will you, _boy_?"

“I’ve done it before,” Stiles shrugs, “There are times I want to light you on fire again,” he drops it into the conversation casually, even though it’s anything but.

Peter’s grin goes sharp, “Oh, how I wish you’d have let me bite you when I could.”

Stiles doesn’t like it. Why should he? It’s Peter fucking Hale and he doesn’t trust the guy. Not after what he tried to do. The guy was insane, got killed, got resurrected, was slightly less insane but it turned out only to be an act. But if Peter got out of Eichen House, then he won’t be the only one.

Better the enemy you know and all that.

 

Stiles will never admit that he _likes_ having Peter with him.

Because he doesn't. He doesn't like Peter. The werewolf is a murdering sociopath who started this whole thing when he bit Stiles' best friend. Never mind the fact that it was Stiles' fault he was in the woods in the first place. He'll always blame himself, but when he has options he'll blame Peter as well.

Stiles however has spent too long with company. Peter’s not the best, and he’s certainly not a shining example of humanity but he’s someone Stiles knows. Stiles has spent the last month alone. (Has it only been a month? It feels longer). He has spent too long being the only one inside his own head. He stopped talking to himself after the second week, and some indistinguishable amount of time later he'd been at the point from going to reckless to straight out suicidal.

He knows he would have let that wendigo eat him alive. Peter probably knows that too but neither of them say anything.

Stiles can't take the loneliness and he thinks that maybe it’s the same for Peter. Scott hadn’t kept himself human alone: he had always had Allison or Stiles or Liam. It's other people who remind you who you are.

With nobody else, Stiles is forgetting who he is.

Peter's not the best example of a human being. But he's company and he's alive and they have a plan. It's conducted from harsh insults and vague ideas of what to do, but they pick a direction and start walking.

"You're still running to Scott?" Peter sneers at him, "You notice he _left_ you. He isn't going to come back for you."

Stiles grits his teeth and tries to ignore the werewolf. When that doesn't work he snaps out a reply. His language has deteriorated after being on his own but he can be just as sarcastic as before even if the cruel streak now runs unchecked with Scott not around. "Is that why you don't want to go south? Derek and Cora left you, I didn't see either of them worrying about poor old uncle Peter. In fact... that seems to be a theme, huh? Derek and Laura left you once, and now even with Laura dead and Cora alive they still leave you--"

He's found a weak point. With a flash of blue eyes Peter whirls around, claws digging into Stiles' shirt collar, "Don't talk about my family," he snarls.

"Then..." Stiles makes the gun pressed point blank into Peter's stomach painfully obvious, "Don't talk about Scott."

"Is that a gun or do you have a thing for being manhandled?" Peter leers, "I guess Derek would know better than I do," the werewolf knows when to back off. He drops his grip in Stiles' collar and steps back, and after a moment Stiles slides his father's gun into his belt.

"I'm heading east," Stiles decides for them, "You can head where you want to."

He half-expects Peter to leave him then. But when he wakes the next morning the werewolf is still there.

Had anyone asked Stiles what he would be doing during his senior year then surviving the zombie apocalypse with a sociopathic werewolf for company did not come up on that list.

It's not like Stiles wants to stick together. They don't trust each other and apparently that's mutual. Stiles half-expects to wake up to Peter as a monstrous wolf-like beast trying to eat him and Peter keeps glancing at Stiles' gun like he expects Stiles to follow up on his promise to shoot him.

It's not perfect. Far from it.

Peter proves that the one time he tried to ask about Stiles' dad.

"I'll admit, I'm curious," Peter says one day, "What happened to Sheriff dearest?"

There is a moment in which Stiles' body tenses. Then he relaxes, his breathing calm. His heart pounds out a rhythm but it's slow and even.

“Zombie got him,” Stiles says. His heartbeat is steady. He'd learnt to lie to shapeshifters months ago, had tested it out on Malia and Scott. He keeps his heart beating normally and casually ignores Peter as he is want to do.

That's why it doesn't make sense when the werewolf stops and states: “You’re lying,” Peter sounds almost disappointed. Stiles’ head doesn’t snap up in shock, he just rolls his neck until the wolf is in his line of sight, keeping his body still and calm with an ability he didn’t know he possessed until a demon fox crawled into it.

“No,” he scoffs, “I’m not. Listen to my heart, dude. My dad was killed by a zombie.”

For a moment Peter’s expression breaks slightly, then his eyes narrow, “You’re still lying,” he shrugs, “Don’t tell me if you don’t want to, but if you lie to me again then I’ll rip the lie out of your throat.”

Stiles bristles and he wants to swear. To punch the smug asshole in the face. To shoot him in the face, he wonders if that will be as satisfying as he’s envisioning it.

He doesn’t. And Peter doesn’t try to kill him. It’s not easy. It’s not what Stiles envisioned and if he could pick someone to spend the zombie apocalypse with Peter Hale would probably be last on the list.

But it works, and slowly, gradually, they begin making their way east.

 

Peter doesn't push the issue of what happened to the Sheriff. Stiles doesn't know whether to be nervous or relieved. The conversations that fill the time are small: idle chatter to shorten the journey when they're not going about in silence.

A while later, with their backs to the setting sun, Peter queries their direction. Stiles isn’t sure how long it’s been since the werewolf first appeared in a frenzy of claws and blood. It’s can’t have been more than a few days, possibly even a week but Stiles doesn't know. It's not like he bothers to keep track of time anymore. "You don't have to go running back to him," Peter doesn't say the name but he obviously doesn't learn his lesson when Stiles tells him 'don't talk about Scott'. "You and I could strike out north... there are less infected over the border and Canada isn't that bad a place..."

For a moment he considers what will happened if they go north. He allows himself to imagine himself and Peter Hale in Canada together and that thought is ridiculous enough in itself to make him snort softly to himself, "No thanks," he says, "I'd sooner shoot myself than do that."

"Well we both know that isn't exactly going to be a hardship for you," Peter sneers, stalking off and not giving Stiles a chance to say anything.

Not that he has a response to that.

 

There are times he really regrets keeping Peter alive. He likes to think he'd stand a chance if he decided to kill the older man. In reality he thinks he they'd probably just kill each other in the process - mutually assured destruction or something. And he can't deny that Peter's useful, even if Stiles isn't fond of his methods.

 

Just because Stiles is no longer travelling alone, and they're heading away from Beacon Hills zombie central, doesn't mean that the undead don't exist.

For the most part they stay away from populated areas. The one time they do end up near a town they are confronted by men with guns and hardened, war-torn expressions on their faces. Stiles and Peter had barely gotten away, and that was only because not even well-armed men were prepared to argue with a blue-eyed werewolf.

"I don't particularly fancy being shot up with wolfsbane," Peter admits with a sneer, later, "I doubt those humans have even worked it out yet, but being shot still hurts."

"You like to look down on us, huh? _Humans_..." Stiles manages to mimic the way Peter sneers the word, "As if you werewolves are so much better than us."

"For all we know we are. We're the next great mutations."

Stiles scoffs because only Peter would think that, "It's not even stable," he scoffs, "Not if your kid is a were-fucking-coyote, your claws have created a were-fucking-jaguar and Jackass Jackson ended up as a homicidal lizard."

"We're all shapeshifters," Peter doesn't seem bothered by it, "It's not a science."

"It still doesn't make _sense_ ," Stiles snaps.

"Does _anything_ make sense in this world?"

Stiles doesn't really have a good answer, "It used to make more sense," he relents eventually, "I thought the supernatural at least had rules."

"The supernatural is chaos in untempered form," Peter answers, "It's never followed rules. The rules are more like... guidelines."

"That was more cryptic that Dr Deaton on a good day," Stiles rolls his eyes, because Scott's boss was eerily in the know. He also had a strange ability to just pause his job to travel to places like Japan where he was prepared to _poison a Mafia boss' pet wolf_.

Scott's boss was kind of badass. If still fucking cryptic.

Peter doesn't ever get a chance to reply. It was going to be something scathing, Stiles is sure of it. He was almost looking forward to spending the next ten minutes talking trash about mutual aquaintences with Peter Hale of all people, when there is a rustle behind them.

Stiles spins around and he's actually quicker than Peter. The wolf has his claws out and eyes flashing because who exactly worries about hunters during the zombie apocalypse?

The man who pushes his way through the bushes isn't a hunter. He isn't even a man, not really. He looks younger than Stiles. His face is still soft and rounded with boyhood and his eyes are wide, "Mom!" he's shouting out when he skids out onto the path, soft eyes widening at the two strangers.

Stiles relaxes only slightly at the sight of the boy. His father's gun is still in his hands, safety off but it's lowered to the ground. He takes a slow, wary step forwards.

He's not relaxed. That would be stupid; that would get him killed.

That was one of Stiles' first lessons. You can't trust anyone. Not in this world.

Not even the blue-eyed werewolf at his back.

"You've got to run," the boy pants out, limping forwards and far, far too trusting of them, "They're after me... they're coming--"

He's not trusting, Stiles realises; he's scared. Petrified.

Peter's eyes narrow. If he was a real wolf Stiles would imagine that his ears would prick at a sound in the distance, "He's right," the werewolf announces, "There are some undead heading out way."

"I don't know who you are, but we need to go. My parents have a camp nearby... come on!"

The boy shoves past, grabbing Stiles by the sleeve and he'd probably let himself go and get tugged along. Either that or he'd take his chances on his own, but he'll never know for sure because at that moment Peter reaches out; grabbing the boy by the throat in one neat movement.

Then in one easy swing he rips his hand away. It might have been harmless had Peter been normal. Had he had normal human nails that would have done nothing more than scratch red lines into the kid's throat.

But Peter's not normal. He's a werewolf.

And his claws are still out.

The boy's throat is torn right open. He drops like a stone and Stiles flinches back from the blood spray, eyes widening at the gaping red maw across the kid's throat as the body drops.

"What the hell?" he snarls, swinging the gun around to point to the werewolf who doesn't even hesitate.

Peter isn't daunted, grabbing Stiles' gun hand and wrestling it out of his grip with the ease of a werewolf, "Don't look like you care so much," Peter sneers, "He was infected."

"How could you tell?" Stiles tries to crane his head to look at the boy's body but Peter has an iron grip around his wrist and is tugging him along the path at a jog.

"You mean apart from the giant bite mark under his shirt? I could smell the blood. The infection."

"So you ripped his throat out? Jesus, Peter..."

"Keep moving!" Peter snarls, and behind him even with his human ears Stiles can hear the hungered screams of the undead.

Peter might have been lying. Hell he probably was, but the dead body in their path will slow them down. Was that his intention?

Stiles doesn't know. He keeps running.

Peter shoves him towards a hilly slope, "Head towards the open ground. I'll meet you there!"

"What? No!" Stiles whirls back to the werewolf, even as Peter shoves his dad's gun back into his hands. Behind Peter he gets glimpses of pale dead flesh, pushing their way through the trees. There are several dozen and for dead bodies they move with unnatural speed.

Supernatural speed.

"Go!" Peter snarls, half-shifted already and this time Stiles doesn't argue.

If Peter wants to risk himself running bait then it’s not like Stiles cares.

(He doesn't)

He whirls around and runs. There is a howl and a snarl and he doesn't look back.

(Because he's not worried about the werewolf. He isn't.)

Stiles doesn't stop until he's at least two miles away and he can't hear the sound of the undead's horror film sounding screeches. He hovers for an agonising moment, trying to work out what to do.

Peter just killed that kid. The kid Stiles isn't even sure was infected.

He should leave. He should keep going and leave Peter behind in the monster infected woods.

It shouldn't be that hard of a decision, but in the end there is only one realistic option.

He finds a tree to climb with a good vantage point and high enough that nothing can get him. Once up there he ties himself to the branch to stop himself falling off and then finally relaxes, curls up and goes to sleep. Peter will find him if he isn't killed. Peter will find him if he even bothers coming back.

It's not like Stiles cares.

If Peter doesn't appear it's not a big loss.

 

When he wakes up, it's to the older man swinging into the tree. There is blood flecked on his shirt, but his hands are clean.

"The zombies?"

"They're not zombies. And they got distracted with a field of vampire cows down south."

"M'kay," Stiles mumbles, still half asleep and painfully vulnerable. He tries to struggle up, blinking himself awake but all Peter does is settle down on a branch slightly ajar from his own.

"Go to sleep," Peter's voice is a low soft growl. It's rough and he still sounds partially shifted, Stiles can't really see well in the dark.

Stiles is loath to obey, but when the older man's breathing begins to even out, he slumps back down, checks the rope that's keeping his secure and lets his eyes drift shut.

 

And so eventually, slowly, painfully, Stiles learns how to trust the murderous werewolf.

Well... their own brand of trust. He knows that Peter won't eat him in his sleep. Peter has realised that he won't follow up on his promise to shoot him no matter how good a shot he is.

It’s not perfect; but it works and eventually, slowly, painfully, they make their way east.

 

"They're not really zombies, y'know."

"What."

“Stiles, I thought we had a conversation about sounding like my nephew.”

“What do you mean ‘they’re not really zombies’. This is the zombie apocalypse; what else are they meant to be?”

"The definition of a zombie is a reanimated corpse being used for voodoo. These corpses aren't being controlled. They're just humans mutated beyond recognition. They're practically walking corpses, yes, but they're more like vampirism crossed with a severe case of rabies."

Stiles focusses on the most important part of that, " _Vampires_ are a _thing_?"

He almost hears Peter roll his eyes.

"So say a supernatural creature got bitten by a zombie-- sorry, would you prefer 'walking corpse?'" Stiles snickers, "Like a banshee or wendigo... what happens to them?"

"Banshee's are immune," Peter shrugs, "It's their thing. As for a wendigo I doubt the virus could overcome their immune system."

Stiles narrows his eyes at the open admission that Peter knew that Lydia was a banshee and that she was immune. He pushes that aside, keeping the nugget of information like he does for a time when it might later be important. "What about werewolves?" he challenges, "Do you heal from the bite or is it like mountain ash? Will you become a black goo monster? Or are zombie werewolves a thing? Zombie werewolves are totally a thing, aren’t they?”

"Lycanthropy kills the virus. We're also as good as immune," Peter eyeballs Stiles for a moment, "Out of all your friends you're the only one who is at risk of catching the virus. If I was still an alpha I'd offer you the bite, to keep you alive. It's what Scott should do, but I doubt he has the sense."

"I thought I told you not to talk about Scott. I get that you don't like him. That you wanted him to help you but he's such a good person he couldn't. And I get that you hate the fact that you bit him and less than half a year later you're nothing more than a beta - an omega even - and he's a freaking true alpha, but to be honest that's also your own fault considering you were the one that bit him in the first place."

Peter looks mildly murderous, (well more murderous than normal) and Stiles doesn't even worry about making a show of taking several long steps away and resting one hand on his knife, Peter's steel blue eyes fade and he looks slightly calmer, "Scott irks me," he says.

"I can tell. Maybe the first time when you tried to get us to murder him, but your general dislike is evident."

"He's so morally good it's almost sickening," Peter curls his lips, "He didn't even bite you when you were possessed by the nogitsune. And he blames you and you don't even care, but had Scott bitten you then, his precious hunter girlfriend would have lived."

Stiles' lips press together and he doesn't say anything. Because it's true. He'd heard Melissa once remark to his dad that she was amazed by his lack of PTSD from his experience. And sure, Stiles had nightmares about twisting that sword into Scott, about waking up trapped in his own body, of it being his dad lying on the floor of the ruined Sheriff's station breathing his last but...

He has faint impressions from when they were separated. Barely-there visions of the hospital and the Oni in the ruined station and Stiles knows people died. He knows the numbers, knows that the fox with his face and his heartbeat murdered them but--

As long as his friends and father was okay, Stiles really didn't care.

He thinks, not for the first time, that there is something wrong with him.

"Why didn't you accept the bite?" Peter asks suddenly, drawing him out of his thoughts, "Why didn't you say 'yes' when I offered?" His tone is one of someone who is dying to know the answer but has refrained from asking for months if not years.

"I told you," he says, uncomfortably, "I didn't want to be like you."

Peter's head tilts to the side, "You know I actually think you're telling the truth now. It's a shame... Scott never even offered it to you, did he? You _see_? This is how much he values you..."

"Scott values choice," Stiles bites out, "He doesn't force people to do things they don't want to."

"If I recall correctly I gave you a choice. And I respected it."

"You didn't give Scott a choice... Or Lydia... I still don't get why you offered it to me."

"The bite is a gift," Peter speaks those words like a revelation, enraptured by every syllable, "And I like you, Stiles. You're the clever one, the most dangerous out of all your little friends. Scott might have these things called morals, but you and I, Stiles? We live in shades of grey."

Stiles' heart thuds in his chest. He feels too tight in his own skin and he can't explain why. Peter's being honest with him... in fact Peter has only ever been honest to him. He doesn't know why, doesn't understand it but it makes him feel like the same clumsy teenager he was two years ago, and not the jaded survivor he's become.

"My dad was managing crowds," he says. It's not what he meant to say, it's unexpected but god - anything to change the subject.

He wondered when this had become the topic to change to.

"He's the Sheriff, he couldn't just up and leave. Scott, Lydia and the others were all queueing for the plane and he... he was meant to meet me there but he didn't turn up. So I went back for him."

Stiles used to be great at talking. Despite the common opinion people formed of him as being a chatterbox, he didn't talk nearly as often as people thought. But he was used to using words to get his point across. He could use words and he used them well.

But he's spent the past month practically alone and he's never going to call Peter the prime social experience. So for once in his life he struggles to search for the words, struggles to form the story in his head.

"I don't know what went wrong. I think a zombie got through the barricade or something."

He hears Peter's soft snort at the term 'zombie' but beyond that the werewolf stays silent, still listening.

"The crowd panicked. Half raced away and the other half went for the planes. I went for my dad."

He is silent for a long time, trying to work out how to say what happened next.

"He was okay, at first," Stiles hates the way his voice hitches, "I even persuaded him to get out of there, and we were heading back to our house to hunker down when..." he chokes, "He was bitten. In the confusion he... neither of us even noticed. He doubled over as if he was catching his breath or had a stitch and I... I don't remember what I said. Aren't you meant to remember your last words to people you love? I said something about eating healthy, about more exercise and I turned around to see the bite mark he was clutching in his side. And he looked up at me and... for a moment, for a moment I think he was still human. But then it was gone."

"How long did it take?" Peter asks. His tone is clinical. Detached. For a moment Stiles feels a rush of anger because he's not even sorry...

The anger fades moments later into resigned acceptance, "I don't know. I'm not sure when he was bitten. About half a day? Maybe less."

"So you shot him," Peter states, finishing the story for him.

"You make it sound like I put down a sick dog," Stiles sneers, "I shot my father. The man who had raised me. Patricide. God, you know how many stories frown upon that? And the worst thing was I barely hesitated. I could see it in his eyes that he wasn't himself. And then he lunged and I--" He chokes, tears fighting their way forwards.

Peter's staring at him. He tries to ignore the blue-eyed gaze, "It wasn't your dad," he says in that same clinical tone. Stiles wonders why he told Peter what happened. The guy is a sociopath after all, he can't feel emotions.

Can he? He sought revenge for his family after all.

Maybe what emotions he had less were just muted. Twisted. The bad ones magnified and the goods ones suppressed. It happens, Stiles knows from experience how easily that can happen.

He wonders why he's trying to find sympathy for the devil standing next to him.

"It wasn't your fault," Peter's sharp gaze meets his, "I'll say it because Scott isn't here. Although personally I think you worrying about is stupid and pointless. Your father is dead, and it’s sad, it’s tragic, I swear I’m crying on the inside, but whinging about it won’t bring him back.”

“You’re a horrible person,” Stiles glares.

“Well, we’re all works in progress.”

Stiles sighs and turns away. He thinks he almost appreciates Peter's honest brutality over Scott's warm hugs and sympathies.

 

It's not just zombies that roam the countryside.

Stiles isn't sure how far they've come. The map is in eight pieces and he sorts through it, trying to keep them on track while Peter makes snarky comments and occasionally wanders away to catch rabbits or whatever it is werewolves do. They limp, crawl, run their way across half of North America.

Stiles had made various contingency plans for a made-up zombie apocalypse when he was a kid. He'd planned out how he and Scott would use his jeep with supplies in the back and how his dad and Melissa would follow.

He'd never planned for this contingency. His jeep is rusting more than a hundred miles back, his dad is dead, Scott and Melissa are far away from him and his only company is Peter fucking Hale.

At least Peter can fight. Stiles tries to imagine Lydia with blood splatters and gun oil staining her fingers but he can't. He looks over to where Peter's mouth is full of fangs and blood has dried under his nails. The werewolf looks disgusted, but is currently more concerned with the mad beast throwing itself at them.

The zombie virus can't affect werewolves, Stiles thinks, but the monster leaping towards them is madder than they are. It's eyes are red and its form is as twisted as Deucalion and Peter's old shift used to be.

Stiles stumbles backwards, almost tripping over one of the beheaded zombies behind them. He has a knife in his left hand and his dad's gun in his right, but he can't pull the trigger. Not with Peter in the middle of it.

It is all Peter's fault _,_ he reflects, he had been the asshole who had suggested they seek out the local pack that had been known to live in the area for a few days respite.

Looking at the half mad alpha werewolf Stiles can't help but think there isn't much left. Not if a packless alpha is all there is.

Said alpha is half on top of Peter. Neither werewolf will stay still, and Peter's in full shift, his features distorted just that bit as he struggles to wrestle the stronger wolf off him. Peter is, after all, an omega.

With a growl Peter manages to roll out of the way of large, lethal looking claws. One crashes down in the soil where his head had been only seconds before.

Stiles raises his gun when there is another snarl and he turns, barely able to curl his limbs away from the second werewolf that crashes out of the woods, "This is our territory!"

The wolf is a female, with golden eyes which gleam with madness. She lashes out with claws and there is no reason at all Stiles can see for that reaction. The virus doesn't affect them, there are no hunters...

A wild strike sends his gun flying and fumbling away from her, Stiles swipes out with his knife.

He doesn't expect to meet anything, but she's stepped forwards into his space and the metal lodges into warm flesh. The wolf rears back, surprise in her gaze.

It only widens when Stiles, keeping a hold of the blade, yanks it out and brings it crashing straight into the other wolfs head. It hits an eye and with a howl she pulls back, dropping to her knees. Stiles stumbles away, heart racing as the wolf dies.

"But you... you're not dead!" she wails and his heart fills with horror.

He's covered in zombie blood. Maybe that was why the pair attacked. Or maybe even the monsters in the end had no trust to spare for strangers.

He doesn't know. But she drops to the ground and he tugs his blade free with a gush of red, warm hot...

He is sick. He is so fucking sick. He drops the blade, he can't even look at it. He just looks up, gaze scanning the woods for Peter. He's not nearby. He's half way up the hill away from the clearing with trampled dirt and plants leading up towards the pair in a trail of destruction. He sees the blue-eyed werewolf crashing into a tree and limping around the bodies littering the clearing like the macabre remains of a horror movie set, he scoops up his gun and heads towards Peter at a jog.

The alpha werewolf is looking worse for wear, and as Stiles approaches he freezes, nostrils widening and his gaze focussing on Stiles.

"No... you killed..." the other wolf never finishes that sentence because at that moment, taking advantage of the distraction, Peter _moves_.

He surges forwards in a rush of muscle, claws reaching for the alpha werewolf's chest and digging in and up...

Stiles freezes in shock, the sound echoing through the woods. It's an awful sound, a wet, gurgling crack and Peter's claws go straight through the man's chest like paper. With a violent, throaty snarl the alpha goes still, eyes still locked on Stiles.

He sees the moment the alpha dies. The red bleeds out of his eyes, but they don't fade or go dead like so many people describe. They just... stop living.

It's with a triumphant growl that Peter yanks his hand back, the body dropping lifelessly to the ground. He half-turns, claws thick with viscous red liquid and innards, but cradled in his palm is the still shuddering heart.

Blood spurts out of the thick aorta and pulmonary artery, dribbling down Peter's hand. He's staring at it with something akin to triumph and a crazy kind of joy in his gaze. His lips twist into a triumphant smile and he lets the heart roll off his fingers.

It drops to the ground with a wet thud and Peter turns; claws bloody and still curled out with visceral clumps of flesh sticking to them. He looks up at Stiles and Stiles just _freezes_.

He sees the moment the electric blue in Peter’s eyes twists and _burns_ to alpha red. Stiles is moving subconsciously before he even realises it.

Peter doesn’t flinch at the cold metal pressing to his forehead. If anything he looks amused, eyes going slightly cross-eyed as he focuses on the barrel of the gun pressed to his forehead.  “ _Really_ , Stiles? I thought we’ve had this conversation.”

“That was before you ripped another werewolf’s heart out of his chest,” Stiles’ voice is calm. His heart though? His heart _races_.

“He was a threat,” Peter sounds calm. Reasonable. "You killed the beta, how is that any more okay than what I just did?"

Stiles curls his lip, twisting his face into a nasty little sneer, “It’s convenient, isn’t it, that he was an alpha? In fact us heading down here was very convenient, that we find the remnants of a pack in the middle of zombie central."

The werewolf in front of him flexes his fingers, as if feeling the blood that still clings to them. His gaze flicks up to the gun hovering in front of his forehead. Even alpha werewolves won’t recover from a bullet to the brain. Stiles hopes. “You know your dad threatened me once,” he hums, as if he doesn’t know how much that hurts, “Twice, actually. He didn’t have the guts to shoot either.”

“My father was a good man,” Stiles’ palm is sweaty. His grip wavers slightly and he adjusts his stance, finger still resting on the trigger.

“He was,” Peter agrees, amicably, “But you’re not. Oh, you pretend. You go along with Scott’s little morally right plans, but you and I both know that given a little incentive you’re just the killer I am.”

He wants to laugh. He wants to throw the gun down and laugh at the situation he’s in. Peter’s right. Stiles might not have killed, but he’s thrown out the option more than one time, even if he’s never carried it through. Maybe he never would in a world that was normal. In a world where Scott was still standing next to him, Stiles wouldn’t _dream_ of it…

But Scott is gone. Scott _left_ and Stiles is standing there, pointing a gun at someone he’s already set fire to once, someone who is very clearly a threat with blood drying on his hands and Stiles doesn’t even _think_ \--

He pulls the trigger.

It clicks.

Stiles gets a single second of confusion and Peter uses it to his advantage and _moves_ \--

The gun goes flying and Stiles is slammed violently against a tree. Bark scratches at his face and his wrists are captured in a strong grip; forced behind his back. Another hand rests on his chin, shoving his face into the tree. There is a smell under his nose of rust and copper, and it takes him longer than it should to realise that the hand at his neck is coated in blood.

“You emptied the gun of bullets,” Stiles says through gritted teeth, trying not to vomit.

“Oh pretty _boy_ ,” Peter croons in his ear, using his whole body to keep Stiles pinned, “You didn’t really think I’d let you keep that gun loaded with wolfsbane bullets, did you?”

Stiles had rather hoped he would have. He hisses insults in his head but says nothing, waiting for the pinprick of claws to come.

They don’t.

Instead Peter shifts his weight, arching against Stiles. The blood coated hand drops down, but it’s only to grab the knife that Stiles had been edging his hands towards, tossing it carelessly away.

“I need that,” Stiles snaps.

“Not for me,” Peter purrs. His tone is sinful, and Stiles’ pulse flutters wildly, like a butterfly trapped in the cat’s claws. “Now while I’m always somewhat inclined to kill you, or let you walk headfirst into the nearest monster out for your blood, I have a more interesting idea…” his voice trails off and Stiles can’t work out why until the blood coated hand presses against the back of his neck smoothing his hair away from the soft skin at the top of his spine.

He feels tiny pinpricks trailing over the exposed skin.

They’re not claws, he realises with horror. They’re fangs. He can feel Peter’s hot breath against his neck, fangs trailing along his hairline.

He struggles.

As expected it doesn’t get him anywhere. The fangs press down harder and all he’s succeeded in doing is to rut himself up against where Peter’s body is leaning on him, pressing down in all the right-wrong places.

“Don’t…” he bites out, “Peter… don’t… I don’t want it…”

The alpha werewolf huffs against Stiles’ neck and the fangs vanish as Peter talks: “You know I honestly thought that answer would have changed,” he muses, “But even after all this time your heart beat still stumbles over the words ‘I. Don’t. Want.’”

“Because you’re scaring me,” Stiles blusters, “And you’re practically lying on me, it’s making me uncomfortable, especially with those fangs at my neck like I’m a piece of prey.”

“Why, Stiles?” Peter sounds positively delightful and Stiles is so glad he can’t see Peter’s face and the expression on it, “Do I make you uncomfortable?”

“I don’t want the bite,” Stiles says, in case he needs to make himself any clearer.

“Are you sure?” Peter doesn’t move. He’s like a rock. A warm, living, heart beating rock. “Stiles, I thought we agreed we’d stop lying to each other.”

“I’m not lying.”

“No? You want to cling to that thing you call humanity? In a time where you’re the bottom of the food chain I would have thought you’d see reason.”

Stiles saves his biggest blow for last, “Even if I did want the bite, I wouldn’t want it from _you_.”

As expected Peter recoils slightly, and he’s angry. Oh, Stiles can tell how angry he is, claws out and bloodied hands smearing the viscous substance along his jaw line. “In that case, maybe I should just bite you now and make you _mine_ ,” the possessive tone makes Stiles shiver, “You’d like that, wouldn’t you? You’d make a beautiful beta as smart and clever as you are. I’d just finally be the one to give you the claws and fangs you need to do more than just sit around, waiting for your precious wolves to come home…”

It didn’t work, Stiles thinks. Peter isn’t proud enough to withdraw at the mention of Scott; instead he’s pushing pushing _pushing_ and Stiles--

He panics. He’s not even sure what he says, but he knows there’s a litany of “Please, Peter, don’t, _please_ …”

“I love it when you _beg_ …”

“Please,” he gasps out. He’s breathing too quickly, too quickly and taking in too little air. His head is spinning, and he can’t stop his shallow, tiny breaths… “Peter… please, Peter… _please don’t_ …”

He can sense the moment Peter realises he’s having a panic attack. The bloodied hand on his neck vanishes, and seconds later so does the weight behind him. He slumps down with nothing to hold him up, shoulder jarring against the tree and knees muddying in the dirt as he sprawls there, trying to keep his breathing together--

He can’t remember the last time he had a panic attack. Lydia was there, she kissed him, and he tries to remember the feel of her lips on his. Their first kiss, their only kiss and god he misses Lydia, misses Scott, misses all his friends and he’s _alone_ , his dad is _dead_ and he’s stuck with a sociopathic murdering werewolf--

“Breathe!” someone says. “Stiles, _breathe_!”

Count your fingers, a fox whispers, you have extra fingers in dreams - one two--

“Three… Stiles breathe…”

He gasps shallowly for air, holds it--

“That’s it, and four, breathe out…”

It’s too shallow, and his lungs don’t have enough oxygen--

“One - in…”

He tries. Something in his chest eases slightly.

“Two - out…”

He lets it go, shoulders slumping. In and out. It should be simple. It isn’t. It’s really, really not, and Stiles wants to let the simmering black slide over his vision but the voice counts out again and he breathes.

“That’s it,” Peter swims into view. He’s standing two metres or so away from Stiles, staring down at him with an inscrutable expression on his face.

“You asshole,” Stiles spits out, but it’s weak, slightly pathetic.

Peter doesn’t even deny it.

“I thought you said--“ Stiles has to stop, has to remember to breathe in and out and in and-- “You said the bite was a gift. Who have you gifted it to? Scott didn’t want it. Lydia didn’t want it. That’s at least two people whose lives you fucked up.”

_“I’d give it to you.”_

It’s so quiet Stiles barely even hears it. And when he does he thinks he’s imagining it. Because one moment Peter looks soft: soft and concerned but then it’s gone, and he’s narrowing his eyes with disdain at Stiles.

“I won’t force it on you,” the alpha werewolf says through gritted teeth, “But I make no promises if you’re dying.”

That should terrify him. In some ways it does: the idea that the man in front of him won’t even let death keep him… that he’ll drag him back, kicking and screaming with a mouthful of bloodied fangs. It should scare him, have him running for the hills but he’s already there and there’s nowhere left to run, all he can do is stare up at the alpha werewolf with a severe lack of empathy, a strong case of narcissism and a possessive streak a mile wild and Stiles _wonders_ …

“I don’t want it,” Stiles bites out, pulse beating frantically beneath his skin. It might be a lie, but he thinks it isn’t. He’s happy being human. That’s all he needs to be - he doesn’t need the bite to be himself.

Peter doesn’t call him out on the potential lie. He just watches from a distance like a looming guardian angel from the depths of Hell. Doesn’t leave, doesn’t come any closer. Just watches. Waits.

Peter can wait years. _Had_ waited years. Six years, to be precise. He’s nothing if not patient.

He can wait a little longer.

Too tired to do anything, Stiles slumps back against the tree, feeling the drying pull of blood from the corpse nearby still plastered across his face. He doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t know what to say. After a while Peter leaves, only to return with a cloth soaked with water from a nearby stream. His hands are no longer bloody and he cleans Stiles’ face of blood like he is Stiles’ father, but he’s _not_ and it’s _wrong_ and Stiles doesn’t say anything.

He wonders if this is what Stockholm Syndrome feels like. Except he's not a captive and Peter is not his captor.

In a way this is almost worse.

Because at least this way even while he knows Peter is a bad person, he can't help liking the guy. He can’t help _needing_ him because in this world?

In this world the murdering werewolf is the only one he can rely on.


	3. better sink your teeth in

Stiles doesn’t notice when they leave California. The forests thin out and become brush. The brush turns to desert. They pass through Nevada and the temperature rises. It’s uncomfortable, although Peter (the bastard) looks as though it barely fazes him.

With the rise in temperature the zombies gain a stench that follows them. They’re rotting, the virus eating them from the inside out and on of a few of the more wearied corpses, green purification looks like it’s happening fast.

Stiles tries to calculate how long it will take before the undead apocalypse because the night of the walking skeletons. He doubts that’s biologically possible - the virus can’t infect skeletons, right?

But looking at the varied stages of the disease from a still living, breathing, albeit mad human to half-way through decomposed corpse, he doubts.

The rules have changed.

Just when it feels like the dirt is going to become permanent in every crease of his skin, while Peter still looks like a goddamn runway model, they hit the mountains. There is still an unhealthy number of Burger Kings and McDonalds on the roadsides, and occasionally when the pair are prepared to go to the trouble they will find a motel and proper bed to bunk down it.

But civilisation comes with its risks and Stiles almost has another panic attack at the mere idea of being trapped in the same room as Peter Hale. It’s almost ironic that it’s the man in question who calms him down. Peter watches him and for once doesn’t make a snarky comment.

There is an amused gleam in his eyes and in the curl of his lips. Stiles can’t let himself forget that Peter is a predator.

Peter probably gets off on his potential usefulness, Stiles thinks. If the wolf doesn’t already have half a dozen plans as to how to bargain with Scott using Stiles by the time they reach New York then he’ll probably be severely disappointed. He’s started planning for each and every eventuality that Peter might think up to manipulate shit again.

It’s a long road and they’re not even half way there. Stiles has plenty of time.

“This ignoring me is going to get pretty old, pretty quickly,” Peter grumbles. Stiles doesn’t answer. He’s been trying to pretend the other man isn’t there. He’s also been contemplating his survival rate without the werewolf around.

It’s pretty low, but Stiles is a fan of keeping his options open.

“Talia ignored me too,” Peter muses, seeming to decide that if Stiles won’t fill the silence then he will, “She could forgive me for my petty crimes: for the cruel comments, for the way I slunk back to the pack, probably even for the way I somehow ended up sleeping with a lethal assassin although I don’t remember that… but she never forgave me for turning Derek’s eyes blue.”

Stiles narrows his eyes, “You said it was Derek’s decision,” he accuses, “I knew you were lying your ass off. You know; Cora actually believed in you. None of us had the heart to tell her what a monster you were.”

The werewolf’s gaze goes heavy lidded and accessing. Eventually he shrugs, as if it doesn’t bother him, “I’m sure Derek and Cora are doing quite well without me,” he drawls.

“They do care,” Stiles snaps back, not bothering to try to be nice about it. Nice isn’t his thing anyway, it was always Scott’s thing, “Derek cared when you were in a coma right up until he discovered you killed Laura. Cora cared enough to phone me up and ask what the hell we were doing sticking you in prison. She cared enough that by the time I’d finished she hung up on me, sounding like she was trying not to cry. I haven’t heard from either of them since.”

“Of course,” Peter’s drawl is cruel, “Derek cared so much he crawled away once again to leave me to rot. He’d done it once - what was a second time?”

Stiles barks out a laugh, “Are you bitter? Is that why you killed Laura? Are you bitter she _left_ you? Left you rotting in a hospital because you were baggage. Because you were weak. She left you, hell, I bet she hoped a passing hunter would finish you off…”

He’s expecting the reaction. Peter’s been winding him up and he’s been doing the same. It’s obviously a genetic Hale trait of throwing him against things, but Peter’s more gentle than Derek even was. He spins around, grabbing Stiles’ wrist and twisting. With a yank Stiles feels his shoulder pull dangerously, and he’s forced to move with the alpha werewolf lest he lose his arm.

He ends up dragged to his knees, his right arm twisted around until it’s pressed diagonally across his chest from the left to the right. Peter’s fingers - not quite claws - dig in and his other hand grips Stiles’ shirt in his hand.

Stiles fumbles weakly at Peter with his free arm but the werewolf is like an iron statue, “I’m sorry,” he snarls, “Did that hurt?”

“I killed Laura,” Peter snarls, “Because she was there and I needed the power. I killed Laura because being an alpha meant I would heal and become strong enough to take revenge. I killed her because I wanted to. And if I want to I can kill you too.”

Stiles is feeling reckless again. Reckless and he just digs his own grave a little deeper, “I thought I was more valuable to you alive.”

It’s the wrong thing to say. Or maybe it’s the right thing. With a fanged grin, Peter lets go of his arm. Stiles would fall down was he not still using Peter to hold him up, and he grasps with weak human fingers in a mockery of claws at the older man, trying to keep his balance. Peter leans backwards, and for a moment they crouch there, Peter leaning over him and Stiles holding onto him lest gravity send him sprawling into an even more undignified position.

“I like the sight of you on your knees,” Peter practically molests the words.

“You’re a fucking creep,” Stiles says, and Peter just glows as if he’s _praising_ him. He stands, dragging Stiles up with him and the alpha werewolf’s one hand rests under his neck, a finger on his chin and forcing Stiles to bear his neck submissively.

Peter’s fingers curl upwards and his nails definitely scratch skin. It’s an eerie echo of the second time they met on a lacrosse field with a dying girl between them.

“This is all your fault, you know,” he accuses, “If you hadn’t killed Laura I wouldn’t have dragged Scott into the woods and you wouldn’t have bitten him.”

“Then why…” Peter’s blue eyes are like chips of ice, “Why do you sound like you blame yourself?”

“I did,” Stiles admits, “Until I realised I could blame you instead, and that’s far more satisfying.”

“Careful, Stiles,” is all Peter says, but the red in his eyes reminds Stiles that he is not entirely sane, no matter what anybody including Peter says. With that warning Peter drops Stiles’ chin, stepping backwards and Stiles forces his fingers to untangle from where they are still fisted in the other man’s shirt. “Don’t push me.”

“Or what?” Stiles just has to challenge, “You’ll go monster wolf on me?” his lips curl, “As if you even could. Derek liked to say that the shape you take reflects the person that you are - what did that say about your old alpha form?”

“Only some wolves can ever manage a full shift," Peter sneers, as if the very idea is ridiculous. “That I managed even half a full shift in my state…”

“Your _state_ ,” Stiles sneers, “You make it sound like you didn’t know what you were doing.”

Peter doesn’t answer.

Stiles just shrugs, "Your sister could."

Peter's lip curls even further in disgust, "Oh course _Talia_ could. Precious, perfect, great older sister mine could do anything."

He ignores the various snarky replies involving Peter's obvious jealousy for his sister and just keeps talking, "Laura could. Derek can too, now. And I think Cora could as well, because it explains how she survived the fire. Not to mention your own daughter can go full-coyote... it... it's in the Hale line. I think you could. You almost managed before, but obviously you've never seen a picture of a wolf before because I'm pretty sure some joints were in the wrong fucking direction and--"

Peter snarls. It's a violent and rough thing that Stiles is thinking is because of him so he shuts up pronto, but then the werewolf's neck snaps up at an awkward angle and--

He's shifting, Stiles realises. With a crack of bones and a disjointed motion as Peter half shrugs off his clothes, half forces them off with the rippling muscles and joints clicking--

"That is disgusting," he decides, spinning around, but he can still hear the snap and crack and-- "So disgusting," he shudders, but moments later there is a triumphant howl.

Spinning around, Stiles is expecting the monster of an alpha that Peter was before. He's not expecting an actual wolf.

But that's what he is; an actually grey furred wolf that clearly can't be a wolf because wolves aren't that big. Nor do natural wolves have pale blue eyes that flare alpha red.

Stiles doesn't even have words, not least because he's pretty sure he's never seen a smug wolf before, but now he thinks he has.

"I'd quite happily say 'I told you so'," he declares, "But when you shift back if I could get a 'Stiles is right and I will never disagree with him again' it would be so much more satisfying."

Peter-wolf looks put off. Seconds later though his head snaps around, ears twitching. Stiles has a strong urge to ask 'what is it, boy?' but fear for his life keeps him silent.

Peter - Stiles has no other word for it - he _barks_. He glances once at Stiles, then pointedly to the distance and Stiles has no idea what he's trying to communicate. He just blinks back, and with a flash of long canine teeth Peter- wolf is on his feet, taking several steps in that direction then turning to Stiles.

"Uh... sure..?" Stiles isn't sure what the wolf wants but that seems to work. With a snap of his jaws Peter bounds off, loping off in the direction of whatever caught his attention. It can't be dangerous, Stiles reasons, or there would be more fang involved. It's probably harmless and Peter--

Peter ditched him to run off after it.

Stiles stares after Peter-wolf in disgust. Their food supplies have been running low and he knows, he just knows that Peter is going to find the nearest big piece of game to drag down and kill. And knowing the unselfish bastard he isn't going to drag back a haunch for Stiles.

In fact, some part of Stiles doubts Peter-wolf is even going to remember him enough to come back. Peter does after all have what he wants now. Red eyes and a new form and where does Stiles appear in that list?

With a sigh he begins trekking along the road. He doesn't wait for Peter. He'll find Stiles if he needs to and if he doesn't...

Stiles is probably better off.

 

He's several miles up the road and it's not been that long but he still finds himself turning to make comments about things to a man who isn't there.

There is a path leading off the road and Stiles pauses, gaze catching sight of a grey slate roofed house through the trees.

He shouldn't. He knows he shouldn't. But he's hungry and tired and he knows the risks intimately by now,

He knows he should stay away but he still goes. He wonders what that says for his mental state that barely half a day without Peter and he's already back to being reckless and stupid.

But there might be food...

He hovers for a moment, debating which way to go. The road turns around to the right and the house is down the path to the left.

Knowing it's stupid, he goes left. The house looks like some old farmhouse, looming out of the dark. Its walls are filthy with age and it looks abandoned. Stiles is still hesitant as he slips inside, but his instincts might prove to be correct when the door opens with ease.

Stiles has grown accustomed to stranger's houses; the dead pictures hanging on the walls with frozen smiles of people who are probably long gone. Personal affects add touches and tones until the house itself is characterised by those who lived there.

He tries to ignore that. He is brutal and efficient, searching through the cupboards but there is a distinct lack of food. It's eerie, but he can't work out why. He finds some spare batteries for his torch, so it's not a completely wasted venture but with desperation his search grows slightly more frantic.

It's useless. He tries to ignore that fact but with an angry growl that sounds like a wild animal Stiles realises the fruitlessness of his search. He just made a big risk and for what?

That is when he spots the cellar door.

It's locked, because naturally things couldn't be that easy. Stiles, however, has always been intimately familiar with lock-picks.

It takes him several minutes even then to get it unlocked. The door creaks when he opens it and he discards his make-shift lock-picking tools: two paper clips, to one side. The door opens like a grin, with blackness looming in the mouth. He's grateful for the new batteries as he turns on his torch and slips down the stairs there.

They creak. It's almost classic horror movie right there. He tries to be silent but it doesn’t work.

He wonders why he's doing this. He wonders when his own curiosity became more important than his long term goals.

He's half way down the creaking stairs when it occurs to him what was wrong.

There was no dust.

On anything.

All the surfaces were clean.

That's when he hears the first moan.

His torch darts up from where it had been shining on the stairs. It lights up something pale, pale white. It takes Stiles ages to work out what it is, and the light flickers over the legs and arms and straggled limp hair.

It's a man. Naked and with ribs visible through his chest he looks the same age as Stiles' father. He blinks feebly in the light, moan turning into words...

"Help me."

It echoes in Stiles' head as he stares in horror.

"Help me--"

"Help me..."

"H-help--"

It's not echoes. The torch drifts, lighting up white, white skin and dull eyes.

The whole basement is filled with humans. They look starved and half-dead. Stiles knows that if Scott were here he would hurry to help them, to get them out but Stiles--

Stiles isn't Scott.

He's never been Scott. He's the one who drags his friends into the woods to look for a dead body, he's the one who always works it out, he's the one--

He's the one in that basement, not Scott, and he doesn't even hesitate as he flinches away from the humans (God, he's beginning to sound like Peter) _people_ trapped down there.

Not trapped. Caged. Imprisoned.

They're like cattle at the market. Or maybe the slaughterhouse.

Stiles had come into the house looking for food. He's found the food, but it's not anything he will ever eat.

He staggers up into the kitchen. His only thought is to get out of there, to make straight for the door and leave before the people who live here come back but when he bursts out into the light he can see his mistake.

He's too late.

They're already back.

There are two men and a woman and if he thinks they should look evil or monstrous because of what is in the basement then they don't. They look normal: human. The woman is sort of pretty and the men are kind of handsome.

One pumps a shotgun with vigour and his companion steps forwards with a wide toothy grin, "You're intruding," he laughs, "But I'm sure we can agree on a reparation price."

Stiles tenses up for half a second, and then he slides out his dad's gun. None of the three seem intimidated, or even scared of him. "Back off!" he snaps out, "Or I shoot."

"Looks like Goldilocks got curious," one of the men laughs, a cruel edge to his voice. Stiles wants to tell him that he's got the wrong fairy tale, that his life is more like Little Red Riding Hood but he can only dare to think about who that makes Little Red (it's a toss-up between himself, Lydia or Scott. If Scott, then he's the one where Little Red turns into a badass with a werewolf coat).

"I said back off," he tries to level with them, his father's gun out and this time it's loaded. Ordinary bullets, but they do the same job.

"You're kind of cute," the woman leers, "Still got some meat on you as well... not bad..." the look she gives him is not sexual or one of attraction. It's scathing and it's like a butcher looking at a pig.

He feels sick. Just at the mere thought that he will end up in that basement, end up dead and not just dead, but _eaten_ \--

They're not even monsters. None of the people in front of him have glowing eyes. There are no fangs or teeth or claws.

They're human. They are humanity at its very finest.

It reminds him of something Lydia said once.

Not all monsters do monstrous things.

 _No,_ he thinks, _they leave that for the humans._

That's about the point a giant grey wolf with red eyes leaps through the window in a shattering of glass and in a single bite of his jaws; snaps one of the guy's necks.

He's like Fenrir from Norse Mythology. With a wide, gaping maw that seems to scrape the sky and seas. He's not shackled though. Not anymore. Maybe once but now?

Now Ragnarók is here and Fenrir runs free.

"Jesus!" the woman flinched backwards and the second man swings his shotgun around, only to freeze as the wolf looks up, eyes like blood and a deep, vibrating snarl erupts out of him.

It's Peter. It's Peter and Stiles has never seen anything more beautiful before. He's across the kitchen before he even realises it, hands fisted in the werewolf's fur as if for support. Peter glances at him, and Stiles is probably imagining the concern in those blood eyes before he turns back to the two humans, teeth bared.

"What the hell?" the man gasps out, staring at where Stiles stands with the monster wolf.

"Wrong fairy tale," he laughs, but it's slightly hysterical, because oh god it's him, he's Little Red and Peter's the Big Bad Wolf and _he didn't sign up to be Little Red_ , he doesn't even own a red hoodie anymore, just an all-weather dark jacket that is more mud coloured than anything.

Peter looks seconds away from eating the pair, and he's sizing them up as if he's considering how many mouthfuls they'll make.

"Let’s go," he can't stay. He can't even bear to think of the people he could save were either he or Peter self-inclined to do so, but he has different priorities and with a tug at the grey fur collar, he steps back towards the door.

He's out it as quickly as humanely possible, stumbling and tripping and not stopping until he's far away. Peter doesn't follow immediately, but when he does he has blood on his muzzle.

"Did you eat then?" Stiles asks.

Peter-wolf doesn't answer, but the wolf levels a baleful glare at him as if to say "well of course not, that's disgusting."

"You can shift back, if you want," Stiles laughs, adrenaline still racing through him, "I probably won't even notice your nudity at this point. And I picked up your clothes. Just... y'know... just in case you decided to come back."

Peter's growl is unhappy.

"How was I meant to know if you were coming back? You ran off like a puppy on crack. I wasn't going to wait for you."

Another growl. Lower this time.

Stiles stares at the wolf. At Peter.

He severely hopes it's Peter.

"Peter?" the wolf looks at him, so that's confirmed but-- "Oh," Stiles realises, "You can't shift back, can you?"

The growl this time borders on a whine and it sounds almost petulant.

"I'm gonna crash," Stiles admits suddenly. He can literally feel it coming, the way his body is slumping, sliding down into a position that is only vaguely comfortable. Exhaustion is seeping into his every pore and he wants to just let the world slip away for a few long moments.

Peter-wolf doesn't do anything. He just growls, low in his throat, and it's almost reassuring.

Peter's going to give him whiplash. Seriously, Stiles could deal with him being the villain. He could even deal with him playing the sarcastic unhelpful uncle. But this? The villain act, then ten seconds later turning around to play the hero doing acts that were, although Stiles will never point it out to him, more akin to something Scott would do than Peter.

It's giving him whiplash. He is so confused, its honestly giving him a headache.

He falls asleep to what feels like the beginnings of a migraine but it probably has a name in Peter Hale.

 

Stiles dreams.

And as most of his dreams have been ever since the nogitsune, they're not pleasant.

The trio from the house laugh as they eat flesh that is still moving while Stiles watches. Then he's the one with blood on his hands, eating warm, raw bloodied meat as a shadow of himself watches, whispering riddles to him.

_“I can be stolen or given away and you will live, yet you cannot live without me.”_

Behind him Peter stands with red eyes and red hands and he holds out a pumping, bloody heart and Stiles takes it, mouth opening as he sinks his teeth into the thick, raw muscle. It's chewy. Chewy and tangy with flavour that sits on his tongue and is heavy in his stomach.

He wakes choking for air. He can still taste the blood, can still feel the chill from the shadow body and feels that familiar tingle every time he remembers the body he's in was vomited up in a pile of bandages and crawled out of the floor and--

Something warm presses into his chest and he scrabbles at it in initial panic before he realises what it is. He's having a panic attack, but he still manages to recognise Peter-wolf through his terror.

The wolf isn't much comfort. But he's warm and Stiles can feel the beating heart through the wolf's chest. A low rumbling growl vibrates through the wolf and Stiles slowly, painfully, feels his breathing ease and his panic subside. He claws his hands through Peter's fur, muscles relaxing and a tension he didn't know he had seeping out of him.

With a huff Peter settles down next to him. He's warm and despite the fact there is a man under the wolf's skin, he doesn't appear to mind the way Stiles grounds himself on the large wolf. If anything he seems to relax, eyes closing as Stiles leans against his side, lulled back into sleep by the gentle rise and fall of Peter's chest.

This time he doesn't dream.

 

When he wakes it's to too much naked skin and a large male pressed to his back. He moves and then freezes, wondering if he woke up Peter.

A very human Peter.

He shifts his head, but that's uncomfortable so he cranes it the other way. This is so embarrassing, he thinks.

And feeling the other man's breathing change, he's obviously awake too.

Stiles decides that it's only as awkward if he makes it awkward, so with a grin he rolls away from the other man, yawning slightly, "So do all werewolves like to cuddle or is it just you?" he leers.

Peter doesn't look impressed, "Why, Stiles..." he purrs, "If you wanted naked cuddles you just need to ask."

Stiles blanches and busies himself with grabbing the other man's clothes out of his backpack and takes great pleasure in throwing them in Peter's face.

 

That's how their sleep patterns gradually change. Peter doesn't shift into a full wolf again, but he wakes Stiles up as a human when the nightmares hit. And eventually Stiles doesn't even question it when he drops down next to the older man at night.

And it's not cuddling. He curls into Peter's body, but he doesn't wrap his arms around him or cling to his limbs. It's weird enough as it is.

“If I could have picked anyone for my daughter, I would have picked you,” Peter murmurs to him one night. He must know Stiles is awake, but he doesn’t respond.

There are so many levels of wrong in that he’s slept besides the daughter and now he’s sleeping next to her father.

Things go wrong eventually.

Because of course they do. When has anything in Stiles’ life been simple?

It’s at this sort of time that Stiles remembers Scott once babbling on about something Deaton had told him about regression to the mean. How everything returned to a mid-point, never staying too bad or too good but Stiles--

Stiles disagrees. He thinks his whole life has been pretty shitty lately and now it just gets worse--

The zombies who were dead bodies that have not yet crumpled into dead whitened bones probably due to magical reasons already haunt the streets. They hear them at night and the unearthly howls make Stiles almost want to curl up closer to the big bad alpha werewolf.

They’re sadistic, the monsters out there. They’re growing smarter, getting clever on them. The mindlessness stays among the lower specimens, but the ones closer to death; the ones still partially alive despite the virus that has ravaged their body lead the others into packs with a frenzy that scares even Peter.

And when things scare Peter then it’s really time to be worried.

It’s not like they expected it. They’re always on their guard, but eventually they have to trust somewhat in the world around them.

The world around them that is not playing by their rules.

Stiles still remembers what they’re talking about. He had been taunting Peter initially about killing Laura, and it had twisted into what life was like before the fire and had by now degraded to Stiles trying to figure out the true story as to how Derek’s eyes turned blue. Peter’s being surprisingly co-operative and he turns around to glare at the werewolf when he hears the first savage scream.

He spins around. The road in front of them had been bare. Empty, but for a mangled pile of cars that had been knocked to the side like a metal grave.

It’s not anymore. They crawl out of the dirt, from beneath dark shadows. Waiting. Ambushing them.

The savage cries send both Peter and Stiles stumbling back, Stiles reaching for his gun even as Peter snarls, eyes flaring red and face twisting. For a moment Stiles thinks he’s about to go fully monstrous, but then he pulls it back, keeping the shift to red eyes and fangs.

The form that you take reflects the person that you are, he think stupidly. And the form these mad monsters have taken is practically savage. Their teeth are filed to points and they wield their sharpened nails and whatever weapons they can find. Wood and brick and sharpened sticks and shiny silver razor blades.

Life snaps into focus like a fast action movie someone has just pressed the play button on, “Run!” Peter shouts throwing himself at two and Stiles shoots another two, backing away all the while.

It was inevitable, he thinks later. He has a lot of time to think later. Too much, almost.

He’s still backing away when one he didn’t notice throws itself at him. He goes down under it, gun skidding out of his hands and he punches the mutated human away, but not before he feels razor sharp teeth sink into his shoulder.

With a hoarse cry he shoves it off but it's already too late. He feels his flesh tear further beneath the gnashing, sharpened teeth. He kicks and flails the monster off him, grabbing his knife and slamming it into the zombie's neck. It chokes and he rolls away, tearing the knife out with him.

His shoulder throbs. He thinks this is the point he should be having a panic attack but he's unusually calm and collected.

He's been expecting this for months, he realises, he's just been waiting for the moment it finally happened.

The bite has torn through his t-shirt and skin. With a grimace he tugs his jacket over it and lashes out at a too curious zombie. It shies away, eyeing him as if it can already tell that in several hours he'll be one of them.

Stiles runs. He scoops up his gun and gets the hell out of there. He scrambles to his feet and away from the road. There are woods and fields bordering it with a huge ditch he has to leap over. He falls short and his trousers splash with wet, cold water.

Looking back he can see the zombies already fleeing from Peter's claws, that is, if they aren't already dead. With jeers and fevered snarls they scatters and Peter lets out a roar that sends several running.

Peter grins with bloody fangs, probably thinking he’s the reason he scared them all off. It's not. They've done what they came for, Stiles is as good as dead now one way or another.

His shoulder throbs.

"Come on!" Peter's by his side in a flash, grabbing his jacket collar and hefting him to his feet with supernatural strength, "Let's get moving!"

Stiles half stumbles, half runs after him. They crash through the trees, neither of them looking back. There are mocking calls from the zombies, if they even had the intelligence to be mocking. The cries come out sounding bloodthirsty, and it's clear that they're not going to let their prey slip away that easily.

They don't stop. Stiles runs and at least running away from various supernatural threats during his teenage years have aided with that. He's fast. He also has an uncanny ability to avoid tree branches and uneven dips. He can't keep up with a werewolf, but he keeps ahead of the gang of zombies.

Gang of zombies? Maybe it's a plague of zombies. That sounds kind of cool, but with said zombies ("they aren't really zombies," Peter rolls his eyes with a sigh) on their heels he has more important things to worry about than vocabulary.

He’s not sure how long they’re moving. They’ve put several fields and half a forest between them and the road, and Stiles’ shoulders are shaking with the effort of keeping up with the werewolf. The alpha werewolf hasn’t noticed yet. Maybe he lied; he can’t smell the virus. Maybe Stiles and Peter are just so covered in zombie guts that it overpowers the scent of everything else.

“I think we lost them,” Stiles gasps out, although it takes him thirty seconds to choke the words out from where they lodge in his chest.

Peter doesn’t look convinced. His head swivels around as he takes in scents and sounds Stiles can't. “They’re still coming,” he says, “They’re far off, but they’re persistent for dead people. There is one thing that can be said about the dead is the lack of oxygen debt is really advantageous to long distance marathons.”

“Can we… can we rest?” Stiles manages to choke out between gasps for air

"We should get across the river," Peter decides, “It will hide our scent from them.”

“They can’t cross running water?” Stiles mocks. Peter looks suitably unimpressed by his ruined supernatural lore. “Sure,” Stiles waves an arm about, although at this point it’s more like a flail, "Maybe you should go first. Check its safe or something?"

"And leave you here to get eaten? I can't do that, Stiles. I'd miss your annoying too much." Peter's smirk is slightly fanged and Stiles gapes at him as the werewolf becomes serious again, "We should go now: put at much distance between us and them."

The river is wide, but not that deep. The main issue is the flowing current, but neither Peter nor Stiles really hesitate to dive in.

Almost as soon as the water washes over him Stiles reflects upon what a bad idea it was. His shoulder is beginning to numb, but that might be from the cold water as opposed to anything else.

He doesn't even think he could make it to the other bank. Maybe it might be easier if that happens... after all... can zombies even drown?

He's not given much choice as Peter grabs his jacket like mother dogs grab the scruff of their wayward pups (and that's really not worth thinking about, the way he's being treated like a wolf cub). The older man drags him onto the bank, depositing him on the soil like a piece of wet luggage.

"I thought you could swim," Peter sneers, in his usual condescending tone. "We need to keep moving..."

Stiles tries to shifts the pack on his back to a more comfortable position. It's soaking wet and it's easier to just let it slide off his shoulder to the ground. His jacket is soaking wet, twisted into an awkward shape around him so he stands, trying to straighten it. His shoulder throbs from every move he makes and he thinks that although half of it is mental, the other half isn't.

Had his dad known, then? Had his father known the end was coming and wanted to prolong it? To keep Stiles ignorant of what was to come so their final hours together as father and son would be peaceful?

He should feel angry at that thought, but he isn't. Not when he's still limping along, trying to find the moment when Peter leaves for recon to stick his father's gun in his mouth and pull the trigger.

He doubts Peter will even care. Peter's already thirty yards away through the trees on some twisted assumption that humans have the same endurance as werewolves. The wolf will probably roll his eyes and not even look back at Stiles' corpse.

Peter wasn't meant to notice. He certainly wasn't meant to stop forty yards away and glance over his shoulder as if he is almost concerned as to where Stiles has got to. His mouth is twisted to form some snarky sentence that can be said around a smirk and a drawl, but it freezes as his eyes narrow on where Stiles' jacket is still twisted around his shoulder.

His eyes are sharp and accessing. "Stiles?" his voice sounds wary. Cold. "What's wrong?"

Stiles thinks Peter already knows the answer to that question, breathing in scents and staring at where there is a very clear bite mark on Stiles' left shoulder.

It's not really a bite mark. It's more like a jagged torn off chunk of flesh where the zombie sunk its teeth in, but the tooth marks are still visible. It will scar, even if it doesn't turn black and dead as the virus takes hold.

They both move at the same time. Peter's eyes narrow on Stiles' shoulder and he moves back, crossing the distance between then in mere seconds. He reaches for him at the same moment Stiles stumbles back out of his grip.

"Oh, you _stupid_ boy," Peter scolds, a fire in his eyes, "You stupid, _stupid_ boy--"

He makes to start forwards but Stiles flinches back again, "Don't!" he snaps out.

"Don't?" Peter repeats, incredulously, "You've been bitten! Did you think I wouldn't notice?"

"You didn't," Stiles points out pragmatically. "We've been running for at least an hour. Maybe two. Maybe more."

If anything the werewolf looks more pissed off, "Wheedling out of our deal?" he drawls, "Surely being stuck with me a little longer can't be _that_ bad? You can't be that desperate to escape... can you?"

Stiles' mind goes blank and he struggles to recall what Peter is talking about. What deal could the werewolf possibly be talking about?

It's only when Peter's eyes flare alpha-red that he realises what Peter intends. And while Stiles may now be safe from the zombies, he's got no chance of getting away from the alpha werewolf.

"No," he declares, "No, I said 'No'!"

"Wow, are do you really want to be rid of me that badly, or are you just that suicidal?" Peter's tone is cruel, "You think I'm doing this for me? Stiles, I'm doing this for you. For Scott..."

Stiles takes another step backwards, "When have you done anything for Scott?" he laughs, feeling a slightly crazy pit near the edge if his mind. It tugs at him, trying to pull him under into the dark. It feels like he’s drowning all over again, and in his head the roots of a dead tree claw their way through his brain.

 _He’s losing it already,_ he thinks, still moving steadily away from the werewolf.

He's grown complacent. How could he forget that Peter was a sociopath? A murderer who painted the town red?

A man who is not going to be put off by Stiles' denials.

"You weren't even going to tell me, were you?" Peter sneers, "You were just going to let it go until you turned. You would have just let yourself die and wake up as one of those monsters," his eyes flash almost cruelly, "Do you think it's some sort of punishment? Do you think you deserve it?"

"Or maybe... I just don't want you sinking your teeth into my shoulder! Maybe I'm tired and don't want to have to keep running. Maybe I don't fucking know!" Stiles takes another step back and that... that is his mistake. Stiles can only stand steady on his feet for so long without flailing and this time, stepping back away from what he is beginning to realise is the real monster, he fumbles.

His heel collides with his discarded backpack and he falls straight back, the small of his back hitting the ground hard. His legs are tangled up in the pack, and Peter doesn't waste time.

Maybe if Scott was there Stiles would have said 'yes' to the bite, or at least been more prepared for it.

Nothing could ever prepare him for Peter.

"It's for your own good," Peter tells him, pinning him down with ease. His body looms over where Stiles has fallen, blocking out the sun. His tone is almost fond, "And mine, too, I guess. I'm already half-insane, the last thing I need is to fall the rest of the way and that means I need you - preferably alive."

"No, don't you dare--" Stiles thrashes, trying to kick Peter off him but despite his height advantage over the other man, he doesn't have the strength. Peter's weight keeps him pinned, knee on his legs and clawed hands knocking away Stiles' hapless struggles.

"This will hurt less if you don't struggle," Peter grins, mouth full of fangs and the canines are still growing.

It's oddly reminiscent of time Stiles found Lydia on the lacrosse field with Peter leaning over her.

Except this time, he's Lydia and there is nobody running to help him.

" _Please_ , don't," he begs.

"That's not an option," Peter says around his fangs, clawing away Stiles' jacket and t-shirt, exposing the bite and holding Stiles' down, "This might hurt," he warns.

“No, Peter, Peter _don’t_ \--“

He doesn’t scream when Peter’s teeth clamp down on his shoulder, if only because he’s trying to kick and claw the werewolf off him. He hears every single crunch and tear as the fangs rip into his flesh, and he can feel his skin slice apart in the warm maw biting down. His fingers snag in Peter’s t-shirt and he grips, fingers fisting in the soft material as if he might be able to claw it off the alpha’s chest and ignore the way Peter’s fangs are buried in his shoulder.

He goes boneless after a few seconds, the pain taking over. It stings and smarts but there’s no rush of power, no heat spreading through him. The bite doesn’t take instantly, and he’s not expecting it to. He knows it’s too late already.

That’s why he doesn’t expect the second bite. Peter uses his grip on Stiles’ arm to bring his wrist up and chomp down again.

This time Stiles does cry out, trying to yank his arm back but it only tears the flesh further, “Stop it! PETER!”

The teeth sink in again and again, and Stiles gives up fighting. He writhes there on the ground - a bloody and pain filled mess.

“It only would have taken one bite you asshole,” he grits out.

“I have to make sure it takes,” Peter’s voice swims through the fog to his ears, “You understand that, right, Stiles? I won’t lose you to this.”

“Like you care,” he laughs, feeling blood literally seeping out of his wounds, “Don’t pretend you’re sad.”

Peter’s a warm weight next to him, tugging him close and dragging him up into a hold. They’re moving, Stiles realises vaguely; moving away from the river and the zombies. The werewolf is a warm, pulsing beat next to him and Stiles can’t fight it. His left side - left wrist, left arm, shoulder, torso-- he can’t even count but it all hurts and he thinks he’ll be sick at the bite marks marring the skin there, “I like you, Stiles,” Peter says. He’s said it before, but there is a new meaning to the word sinful and it’s in the way the werewolf’s tongue molests Stiles’ name, “You’re more useful to me alive, even as a werewolf, than you are to me dead or one of the walking corpses.”

Through a fog of pain Stiles knows why he’s useful. He knows why Peter bit him.

He’s nothing more than a pawn in a game of chess between Peter and Scott. A passed pawn that’s been long forgotten about and left to the outside. But now? Now he’s been promoted. Pawn to queen.

There’s only one problem.

He’s playing on the wrong side of the board.

 

Stiles is useful.

No, screw that. Stiles is _perfect_.

What better way to get back at Scott, after all, than to turn his best friend into _his_ beta? Stiles is already a bloody, broken mess. He's already a killer; all Peter's done is give him the fangs.

He needs Stiles. Not just as insurance, but as stability. He's an alpha without a pack, and Stiles had been right there...

He'd waited, bided his time, but he knew that sooner or later Stiles would get the bite. It wasn't a question of if or where, but when.

Trust the boy to try to hide it. He really is magnificent, Peter thinks, and too damn smart, He wishes he'd bitten him back in that garage, consent be damned...

But maybe it was better to wait. Better to wait for when Scott was out of the picture and he could coax the boy into something akin to trust but also scarily like dependence.

The boy's unconscious now. His lashes are damp and they cling together where tears well up, the boy shaking from the pain. Until a few minutes ago he had been making these tiny, beautiful whimpering noises in the back of his throat but now he’s silent. Too silent, Peter thinks, and if he can’t help feel cheated that his investment might be going to waste.

With a soft sigh Stiles’ heart stutters and gives out. Peter doesn't move.

Stiles just might have gotten his death wish, after all.

Peter’s tempted to go over to the boy. He’s temped to try and take away the pain, to bite down again and force the lycanthropy to claim the boy like it should.

He doesn’t.

If Stiles is meant to survive then he’ll make it.

If he doesn't then it's no loss. Peter tries to convince himself that he won't miss the irritating chatter, and won't lose that beautiful full shift form he has discovered in favour of the mad twisted monster.

He won't admit that Stiles is his anchor to sanity.

With a wet thump the boy's heart starts beating again. Peter releases a breath he didn't know he'd been holding. It's going to be touch and go. The idiot teenager had kept it well hidden and the virus already in his system had almost completely taken hold.

But there are five imprints of his own fangs - they look like bites from blunt human teeth except his teeth are neither blunt nor human and they tore straight through the skin, marking the kid and Stiles will be _his_.

His and not Scott’s and a thrill of possessiveness runs through him. It reminds him of when he was still young enough to think stealing Talia’s toys was the best thing to do in life. He’s an adult now, but stealing someone else’s toy and breaking it beyond repair is still his favourite thing to do.

The things he’ll do to this boy… Stiles is already half-way there, but now he’s out from under the stifling of Scott and the merry band of misfits his true colours are showing; streaks of reds and stormy blues shot through the black nothingness that the boy tries to pretend isn’t there. But the scars on the soul aren’t hidden so easily; and the nogitsune left its mark.

Stiles will make a magnificent wolf. And now Peter will have his loyalty. Peter will train him, meld, bend, break and _make_ him--

He doesn’t have to do much. All Peter can do now is wait and hope that the boy lives through the next twenty-four hours.

He's never going to admit that the dependence he's coaxed the kid into might be running both ways.


	4. before your eyes

Stiles wakes gasping for breath as if recovering from the edge of a panic attack. His skin is clammy, and he’s cold, shivering slightly as if from a fever. His throat is dry as he sucks in air, but he’s not coughing up black goo.

He realises seconds later that the reason he’s cold is because Peter has stood up from where he had been sitting at Stiles' back, and is nearby with their packs of supplies, sorting through them for something.

Stiles is still alive.

That’s his first surprise.

The second is that his left side still aches.

With a groan he makes it half-way to sitting and then collapsed back down. Pain bites into him: hot and sharp. Craning his neck even hurts, but he has to look, he has to see--

“It’s not a pretty sight,” Peter tells him, before he can somehow manage to pry his shirt up.

“Well considering you bit me like five times--“ Stiles is starting to resort back to his basic defence of sarcasm when Peter actually lifts up his shirt and he can see the extent of the damage.

Peter’s right, he thinks. It’s not a pretty sight.

It’s not the bites that are a problem. The ones lower down his body already are starting to heal. They’re smaller, they’re not bleeding at all and they look a week old already. That in itself is fascinating because Stiles is healing, Stiles actually turned, some part of him had always been too scared for the bite because he’d always believed he wouldn’t turn--

That’s where the good ends. His shoulder is a mess. It’s not the bite that’s the issue; it’s what is underneath it.

The skin is tinged grey. The veins are black. It looks like his flesh is rotting and scarred over that is a neat, fanged bite mark.

“It might heal, over time,” Peter says, sniffing it critically, “But the bite could only stop what the virus hadn’t already changed.”

“Are you saying that I’m a zombie werewolf?”

Peter curls his lip, “No.”

“I’m totally a zombie werewolf,” Stiles flexes his arm. It hurts. He winces and Peter doesn’t look sympathetic. Not in the slightest.

“If you had told me sooner, we could have stopped this,” he says, in a slightly smug tone. Stiles glares, because he hadn’t asked for the bite. Peter knows he didn’t want it. Peter knew and he still-

“Just as I thought,” Peter breathes, and Stiles’ throat tightens. He blinks, because his alpha is staring at his eyes with an awestruck expression--

His _alpha_?

His _eyes_ , he realises seconds later, might be glowing. He can’t tell. How does Scott ever know when his eyes are glowing? He can’t even feel it, just a thrum under his veins which might be from having Peter so close to him, right there and leaning over him, breath warm and hands careful and they pull his shirt back down, but all Stiles can think about is how much he wants to lie down and bare his neck like an actual wolf--

He’s not an actual wolf. He’s human, he’s Stiles. There’s no alien presence in his mind, no sense of a beast within. It’s all him, but he feels wild. Like he wants to run for miles without stopping. Like he wants to rip into hot, warm blood. Like he wants to roll and press closer to his alpha above him, licking kisses up to that broad thick neck--

What? No, that wasn’t right.

Stiles blinks, trying to tamper down the new instincts, the pull in his head. It’s like being drunk, like all his inhibitions are falling away to the bite.

He builds them back up, one solid brick at a time and despite how much it pains him, he leans away from Peter’s touch.

Peter just watches, his expression slightly amused, “Well?” he asks.

“Well what?”

“Aren’t you going to ask?”

He’s being annoyingly cryptic. Stiles can tell. “Ask what?” he grits out.

Peter grins, “What colour your eyes are.”

Stiles shuffles out from under Peter, arm aching and his shoulder cold. Dead. The thought runs through his mind before he can stop it, “I already know,” he says, pulling himself to his feet and limping towards their backpacks, “I don’t need to ask.”

 

Stiles can finally understand Scott’s reaction to being bitten.

It’s not as fun as Stiles had thought it was. Not that he ever was under the assumption that it was fun but it’s not. It’s not cool. He’s not a fucking superhero.

(Stiles is probably the villain but whatever).

He finally gets why Scott took such joy in the simple things. In lacrosse and Allison and Allison and--

Well, Scott obviously got a little side-tracked.

Stiles doesn’t have that problem. All he gets is super senses and brand new impulses that means the next group of zombies (“they’re not zombies,” Peter hisses in frustration)… the next group of walking corpses end up even more corpse-like.

Corpse-like as in scattered limbs and bloody entrails. Corpse-like as in yellow pus and rotting blood scattered over his claws and the clearing.

He hadn’t even gone for his gun.

Peter looks triumphant. Like he’s won the goldfish at the carnival, and now it’s dead and floating upside down in a bag of water. And Stiles is the goldfish. It’s the only thing he can be, the once human, now werewolf drowning in a sea of blood.

“I think I’m going to be sick,” he says, stumbling away from what looks like a literally bloodbath. It’s not like the movies. The scene isn’t painted red.

It is painted skin tones and shades of browns and crimsons with splashes of putrid yellow and bile greens. It’s the smell of rust and human waste and something almost sickly sweet in the way it clings to the back of his throat.

If Peter were a kind and caring boyfriend, he might be the one to hold Stiles’ hand while he vomits up his measly lunch. As it is he sneers from the bank as Stiles washes his mouth out with what tastes like river water contaminated with chemicals.

“They’re only monsters,” he scoffs.

“Yeah?” Stiles laughs, “And so are we.”

Peter’s laugh is low like rolling thunder, “I thought you were a werewolf,” he says, “Isn’t that what your true alpha would tell you if he was here?”

“But Scott isn’t here,” Stiles whispers, staring at his reflection in the river. There is blood on his cheek. He wipes at it but the blood on his hands just smears it further.

“The truth is,” Peter continues, “We’re not even monsters. We’re animals. Nothing but a bunch of dirty, stupid animals. All of us - the banshees, the wolves, the coyotes, the humans, the wendigos, the kitsune, the druids - we’re all animals. Do you want to know the different between us and them?”

Stiles doesn’t say anything; he knows Peter is going to answer his own rhetorical question.

“We’re the predators,” Peter sounds so pleased with himself; it’s almost cute, “We’re the predators. We’re the top of the food chain and _they_? They’re the _prey_.”

“Being a predator doesn’t make us killers,” Stiles pushes himself up, tearing his gaze away from his own reflection.

Peter’s look is almost sympathetic.

 _Almost_.

“In this world, it makes us survivors,” Peter says, as if it’s that simple. As if it’s that black and white.

“Shades of grey,” Stiles remembers something Peter had said to him once.

The alpha werewolf laughs, “You’re learning.”

 

Being a werewolf is not easy, but like everything Stiles learns. He adapts and he gets better. He’s never going to be the most co-ordinated, and his eyes still flash whenever that feeling in his veins grows too powerful. There are times he wants to rip everything apart - zombies, animals, _Peter_ \--

He keeps it locked down. He controls it.

‘Control is overrated’ he had told Malia, and so he runs with that. He keeps himself balanced and focussed and it works right up until it doesn’t.

The round moon shining down through patches of cloud are the cause of his problems.

All those things - the blood lust, the wild animal instincts he has been ignoring - now they come surging back and Stiles…

Stiles is inclined to just let them.

Stiles has never been high. He's been happily drunk several times as well as been able to experience the thrills of various medication. None of it, absolutely none of it, has made him feel like this.

He's light-headed and everything around him is really, really simple.

There is him. A _predator_. A wolf.

And everything else?

Everything else is prey.

"Jesus," Peter grabs onto his arm, before he can launch himself into the trees. He growls in annoyance: he wants to run, run and hunt and-- "Did you just growl at me?" Peter laughs, seemingly delighted, "I knew you'd be suited to this."

Stiles had been vaguely wondering where all the anger he was supposed to have was. His claws twitch and he realises that it's all right here. In the alpha werewolf standing in front of him.

He has barely registered the thought than his free hand is slashing out, and Peter barely moves backwards in time to avoid the claws that slash across his face. The alpha's eyes flash red as his own composure slips, and a low growl reverberates in his throat, "You wanna get angry, Stiles?" his voice is sinful and Stiles' vision flares into high-definition. "Let's get angry--"

Peter's own shift slides over him. He keeps it down to just the eyes, fangs and claws and Stiles has no idea what he himself looks like. He doesn't really care because in that second he launches himself at Peter.

If he kills Peter he'll be an alpha, he thinks, claws meeting flesh and digging in. He twists them in a little deeper and hears Peter grunt.

It's not going to be that easy though. Peter is, after all, an alpha. With a flash of fangs he tosses Stiles off him, sending the beta stumbling back.

"You're angry at _me_?" Peter leers, "Or is the person you're really angry at yourself?"

"Shut up!" Stiles finds his words through the layers of instincts that all overlap each other like a dawning headache, "I thought you were going to teach me how to control this?!"

"Why do you need me?" Peter mocks, "I thought you could do everything yourself. You taught Scott more than I ever did."

An anchor, Stiles thinks, but he doesn't have one. No person is there for him. Thoughts of his dead father don't reassure him the way they do to Isaac. Malia is nowhere near to be for him what Allison was to Scott.

Lydia might be his tether but even she couldn't help him keep the door closed where it counted.

And Stiles will never be able to rely on himself. That's why he had never wanted to be a werewolf. After all - how could he be a wolf when he couldn’t even trust in his own reflection?

That leaves Derek's anger. And Stiles has plenty of anger. It's usually cruel and sarcastic, but the full moon brings out the worst in everyone.

"Sti--" Peter's words are interrupted as he crashes into the alpha, claws digging in seconds before Peter knocks him off again, "What are you doing?" Peter asks, raising one eyebrow.

"Wondering if I kill you, what it would be like to be an alpha," Stiles admits, bouncing on the balls of his feet and this time Peter anticipates his attack, side-stepping and snarling.

It doesn't intimidate him. He's not sure if it should but it _doesn't_. Spinning around, he lashes out with claws and when Peter avoids those, he tackles the alpha, sending them both to the ground.

Peter's shoulders are shaking when Stiles finally succeeds in pinning him after several minutes of uncouth wrestling, violent snarls and a dangerous lack of care for where either of them stick their claws.

Stiles thinks he's mildly worse off that Peter is, but he doesn't care. Bloody and triumphant he eyes his alpha, because things are simpler under the moon and the only question is: throat or heart?

He remembers a dream and eating a heart and his inhibitions are so lacking that it almost appears to be a good idea.

That's when he realises Peter's shoulders are shaking because he's _laughing_.

"I knew you'd be good at this," Peter croons, "Isn't it satisfying to just rip and tear? _God_ and you tried to tame Scott and Malia but you... you can't even keep yourself tamed, can you? You _like_ this."

"Fuck you," Stiles sneers.

Peter grins, "That is actually a good plan; let some of those emotions out," he laughs as if Stiles' claws at his throat aren't even intimidating him and--

Of course they're not. Peter's an alpha. And Stiles hasn't even been a werewolf a month.

Stiles doesn't have Peter pinned. Not even close. With a low growl Peter shoves Stiles back, rolling with the movement until it is Stiles with his back pressed to the hard ground. Peter looms above him, weight pushing down on Stiles and its uncomfortable and claustrophic but--

It's dizzying, having Peter so close to him. His head is spinning and it's too natural to him to drop his head back, neck exposed and eyes closed.

"Good boy," Peter purrs, and Stiles feels the gentle prick of fangs as Peter mouths gently at his neck but doesn't bite down.

It's almost sickening how easily he had submitted but he doesn't even care. Not with the moon full and his alpha so, so near and Stiles--

He's staring at Peter's lips. They're forming words; smug and narcissistic drawls. "Isn't that better, Stiles? Submitting to your alpha? It's like you were _made_ for this--"

The talking is getting annoying, Stiles thinks. Really annoying. So, gaze still enraptured by Peter's lips he shuts up the other werewolf by the only way he knows how.

Pressing upwards he kisses Peter fiercely. The alpha werewolf stiffens and then responds with the hint of a fang scraping against Stiles’ lower lip. Stiles whimpers in his throat and can only hope that the sound never became audible.

Peter pulls away first and he looks down, almost surprised at where Stiles lies beneath him.

"Have I finally robbed you of speech?" Stiles grins.

"I was just thinking of how you slept with my daughter, actually," Peter knows exactly what to say to make it awkward.

"C'mon," Stiles growls, throaty and it wasn't meant to sound as desperate as it did, "I know you're old enough to be my dad, but surely you aren't that old that you've forgotten what to do?"

Peter looks offended, "You sure you're not confusing murder with sex?" he raises one eyebrow, "A moment ago you were trying to rip my heart out."

"What can I say?" Stiles huffs, "You offered a more interesting prospect."

"Oh really?"

Stiles makes an unhappy sound in the back of his throat, "Are you going to keep talking or do you think you could put that mouth to better use?"

Peter huffs. His breath is warm and his pulse strong above Stiles, "And here I thought _you_ had an oral fixation," he purrs and that tone... that shouldn't be legal. It's definitely not PG.

"How about you shut up already and fuck me?" Stiles snarls, and he has to talk around fangs but he doesn't care.

And Peter, that smug bastard, just keeps Stiles pinned, his lips curling like a content cat, "Make me," he says.

Stiles does.

 

If the events of the full moon were meant to change things between them; they didn't. At least, no more than their patterns had already changed. Stiles still sleeps next to Peter to stave off the nightmares. They still take turns scouting out potential places for food and shelter ahead of them.

Their routine is already scary in its certainty. It's not alarmed Stiles before, so why should it now?

They find the name of a town. It's been a long while since Stiles and Peter left Beacon Hills and they're just over half way. Just under six months. It's not like Stiles has been counting. It’s not like they’ve been walking in a straight line. It’s been more like a zig-zag, circling some states entirely and trying to keep away from the big cities.

But then again they've been walking from the west coast to the east: it's not going to be quick.

It wasn't meant to be easy. But it wasn't meant to be this complicated either.

Had Stiles been alone he would be dead by now. There is no question about that. Had Stiles been alone he wouldn't be worrying about the logistics of sleeping with a man old enough to be his father. A man who actually was the father of a girl he's already slept with and before the apocalypse was still sort of dating.

He tries to imagine explaining to Malia how he's breaking up with her because he's sleeping with her father. Then he decides it doesn't matter because Malia has probably moved on already. He's been gone for months.

They probably think he's long dead.

And in this world...

In this world there aren't rules.

So when that night Stiles crowds into Peter's space, prompting a few snarky phrases and smug expressions he doesn’t feel guilty. Not in the slightest; instead he enjoys what he has and what the alpha werewolf has to offer.

It's easy. It's simple.

There is just one problem.

Hate-sex wasn't meant to have feelings beyond anger attached to it.

Was it?

 

“I hate you,” Stiles says one day, because maybe saying it makes it true. He can hear his own heart but he’s gotten so good at lying it stays steady. He settles for glaring at the older man. Peter’s twice his age - Stiles wonders, and not for the first time, if there is something wrong with him. If he’s always been this way, or if he came back wrong: he was vomited into the world and crawled out of a pile of bandages. He can’t still believe he’s okay, right?

Peter just leers, completely unbothered as he shoves aside a tree branch from the path bordering the outskirts of a small town; “You don’t seem to hate me as much when I’m fucking you into the mattress.”

“You know sometimes I wish Derek had clawed out your throat again,” Stiles admits, “Or that the nogitsune had gotten around to tearing you apart. Or that you hadn’t ditched my wolfsbane bullets so I could shoot you. Several times. Preferably in the head.”

“You say the sweetest things, lover,” Peter sounds almost flattered. Then again he’s probably into violence. Violence and murder are probably the other wolf’s wet dreams come to life. “If I was dead,” the alpha points out, “Then you would be too. Isn’t it wonderful how we’re both alive to keep each other here on God’s green earth?”

“I bet you love this,” Stiles scoff, “The world gone to shit, and you come out on top. Every. Single. Damn. Time.”

He doesn’t even deny it. Asshole. “Of course. The world is a playground full of broken toys. Why shouldn’t I make the best of it?”

“And it doesn’t bother you that someone got into the day-care and murdered all the kids?” Stilse scoffs, then answers his own question, “Of course not. Why would it? Hell, you’d probably have done it yourself if you could.”

“Stiles, I assure you, I didn’t cause this…” he pauses, “ _zombie_ _apocalypse_.” He practically sneers the word like it’s something stuck in his teeth. “Like a world in catastrophe is beneficial to me… It’s really done a number on the stock market. Cash and family fortune just… isn’t what it’s used to be.”

Stiles wonders if he should follow his line of questioning and just ask. He wants to know what Peter was planning after they should have killed Scott. He wants to know what moves the older man would have made; what strings he would have pulled in their tiny and broken pack if their alpha was gone.

He doesn’t get a chance to ask. Because at that moment Peter pauses, head swivelling as he scents something.

And seconds later Stiles can smell it too. It’s nice. He’s not sure what it is, but it’s really nice. He’s moving towards it before he even realises, and Peter grabs onto his shoulder. Stiles shivers at the warmth pressing against his partially dead shoulder. “What is it?” he asks.

Peter doesn’t answer. His eyes are slightly unfocussed and he shoves Stiles behind him, leading the way forwards. Stiles notices that this way takes them closer to the town and away from the woods. It makes him uneasy, but that scent… it’s mouth-watering. It must be meat or something that smells so nice. Someone’s roasted a haunch of venison and hung it in the trees just for them to pass by.

It’s like one of those cartoonish traps. The meat hanging in the tree. And Stiles and Peter moving towards it like the hungry wolves.

Maybe, Stiles thinks, that’s because it is a trap, because no meat should smell like that. Not really.

“Peter--“ the name is half-way out of his mouth when it happens. Peter is frowning, shoving aside another tree branch, and stepping forwards and just like that he vanishes from view as the ground swallows him whole.

It falls through with a crash, Peter’s weight bearing the trap down. Stiles’ first instinct is to flinch back. Then he scrambles forwards, cautious in case he ends up in the same sink hole as Peter did. “Peter?” he calls, peering forwards, “Did Satan finally drag you down into the depths of hell?”

“You’re still not funny,” his alpha’s - and yeah, Stiles has so many issues - Peter’s voice floats up to him.

It’s a small hole, about a metre square and several very long feet deep. Stiles can see to the bottom, and apart from looking pissed off Peter looks unharmed. There are no wooden stakes or bear traps in the bottom, and that’s a relief. If anything he looks mildly alarmed as he pushes himself to his feet and brushing off the dirt like it’s personally offended him.

“Hunters,” Peter’s voice is a snarl. It tells Stiles to expect mutilation and massacres and his response should not be the hair rising on the back of his spine and gums itching as his fangs long to extend.

He looks up, scanning the area around him. He can’t smell any hunters, but then again he can’t smell anything but the overwhelming scent of the fake meat lure. Beneath that is nothing but nature but that too is probably faked. Hunters must know how to hide their scents, right?

“Stiles, go hide,” Peter voice drifts up earnestly.

“And leave you rotting in a hole?” Stiles frowns, “I thought you’d never ask.”

“What? No, you _idiot boy_ , don’t leave me--“ Peter stops talking when he realises Stiles was joking. He growls, and flashes red eyes but he doesn’t intimidate Stiles.

Okay, maybe he intimidates Stiles just a little. But certainly not from twenty feet down in a well.

“They’re going to come back, so get yourself out of sight,” Peter snarls, as if he has to spell everything out.

“Well naturally,” Stiles says, his tone clearing stating ‘well duh’. Maybe leaving Peter might not be such a bad plan, he considers just turning around and walking and not looking back.

Peter would do the same to him if the situation called for it. Probably. Maybe. Stiles isn’t sure.

He could leave Peter but Stiles…

Stiles doesn’t want to.

The thought terrifies him. He does what Peter says, just so he doesn’t risk the alpha werewolf questioning why his heart is pounding like he’s just run a race. He settles in the woods to wait, and tries to remind himself that Peter’s a monster. Peter killed seven people. Well… six if you didn’t count Kate Argent.

Peter tried to kill Scott.

Stiles feels the absence of his friend keenly. He tries to imagine what Scott would say, how he would have coped with helping Stiles through the zombie strewn landscape, how he would have dealt with biting Stiles.

Stiles can’t picture it. He just… he can’t see it. It’s not Scott’s play. Scott’s morals and kind nature throw up to many potholes and he thinks they would have fallen in one miles back had it been just him and Scott.

Without Peter he would never have gotten this far.

And so screw him - he’s grateful to the werewolf. Grateful and he can’t really imagine doing this without him anymore.

“I think we got one!” someone calls out, and Stiles snaps back to attention. He needs Peter, he decides, needs Peter and wants to keep him - preferably alive.

He has to deal with the hunters.

There are five of them. One woman and four men, all looking various degrees of rugged and well-armed.

“They better pay us something for this one,” the woman grumbles as they draw near, “That omega we picked up last month barely got us a scrap of food.”

“Why do they want them anyway?” a man grumbles, “They’re better off dead.”

A third person pipes up, “The shapeshifters are immune to the virus. Those big hotshots in the black suits want to use them to engineer a cure. Some way of bolstering our immune systems to fight it off like the werewolves do.”

“Sounds like a ruddy stupid idea. They’ll turn us all into monsters at this rate.”

“Which is worse?” the woman muses with a grumble, “Being bitten by a zombie or being bitten by a lycan?”

They stop near the hole and one of them whoops with wild joy, “Fell for the bait, did you wolf?” he leers.

Peter snarls. It’s visceral and Stiles can’t help it, he feels his veins thrum and his nails thicken into claws. His mouth is full of fangs and his vision sharpens as he contemplates the five hunters; planning how best to take them out. “I thought you’d have better things to do,” Peter shouts up at them, “Than hunt down werewolves when there are worse monsters to worry about.”

“Nothing worse than a ‘ _were_ ,” the woman spits, “And don’t worry - you’re going to help humanity.” She laughs, and it’s echoed by her companions.

Stiles takes it as his cue. Pulling out his gun he takes aim and pulls the trigger and tries not to wonder when murder became the easy option.

The woman who reminds him a little too much of Kate Argent falls backwards with a bullet through her eyes. It was meant to hit her in the forehead, but Stiles’ shaky hands meant his aim was off. The men whirl towards where Stiles is hiding but he’s already moving. He’s a blur when he crashes out of the trees and straight into the middle of the group.

He crashes into one of the hunter's, throwing his weight a little on purpose as he spins around to deflect a knife blade with his claws.

The hunter he had crashed into staggers, unable to regain his balance and like Stiles had intended, he topples head first into the pit where he is met with angry snarls.

The knife blade is sent flicking off into the trees and Stiles ducks behind the guy as his two companions try to shoot him. He brings up his gun (his gun. It’s not his father’s gun anymore) and shoots the guy in a foot. He howls, dropping his own weapon and hopping around, getting in the way of the other two hunters.

It’s easy for Stiles to finish them off. Sure, they’re alive and not zombies, but in the end there really isn’t much difference to how living flesh tears from dead flesh.

He fells one guy with claws to the throat and the other by stabbing the hunter’s own knife into him. The one he shot in the foot he puts to rest with another bullet to the head. Grimacing and feeling slightly sick at the feel of blood between his claws, he makes his way carefully over the bodies to the hole, grabbing a piece of rope as he does so from one of the dead guy’s backpack.

This is why Stiles can’t imagine Scott being here. Scott would never have done something like this. Scott would never want Stiles doing something like this. But Peter?

Peter doesn’t care.

"I got you a present," Stiles grins down at him.

Peter eyes the hunter that fell into the pit. He's already dead, heart beat silent and only the tang of pulsing blood and sour stench of human waste there to suggest there was life. "That was a present?" he asks, "I'm honestly disappointed, Stiles, that gift was hardly more than a morsel."

"You weren't meant to eat him. Asshole."

"Shut up and get me out of here."

Stiles helps Peter out of the hole, taking care not to fall in himself. Once out they sprawl in the dirt for a moment, before the smell of the dead hunters gets to Stiles. "We should go," he says, hurriedly. “They may have had friends."

"I doubt it," Peter sits up, eyes narrowed at the corpses, "You didn't half rip them apart, did you?"

"What can I say?" Stiles doesn't mean to leer, but he has obviously been spending too long around Peter, "I learned from the best."

"Are you okay?" Peter's tone is not troubled, but his eyes are concerned.

Stiles feels sort of uncomfortable, "I'm alive," he shrugs, "They didn't poison me with wolfsbane and it's not like my eyes can change colour again."

“Hmm,” Peter says critically, “For the record, Stiles, I like your eyes that colour.” His smile is more of a smirk, “I think they suit you.”

Stiles splutters for a moment as Peter swaggers away, “You’re a fucking creep!” he shouts after the werewolf.

Peter’s laugh echoes through the trees.

 

"We'll hit New York in a week or two," Peter says when the countryside changes again.

Stiles glances sideways at the alpha because if he didn't know better he'd have thought Peter sounded apprehensive. "Your point?" Stiles asks.

"I might not be welcome there."

That makes Stiles pause. He had almost forgotten that Peter had been locked up in Eichen House. That Scott had been the one to deliver him there, drugged up on wolfsbane.

Peter's right, he thinks, nobody would trust him not to murder them all. Hell _, Stiles_ doesn't trust Peter not to murder them all.

"I'll talk to Scott. He'll understand," Stiles shrugs, "I'll vouch for you. I promise not to tell any military or government that you're a horrible person."

"I can go north if it's too much trouble," Peter shrugs, sounding like he almost prefers that idea, "Then we don't have to worry about that problem."

Stiles tries not to let it show that it bothers him. That he doesn't want Peter to leave, even if some part of him had always expected it, "If you want to head north then don't let me stop you, dude," he says.

There is silence and Stiles glances at Peter in case he missed a nod of agreement or something. Instead Peter is tight-lipped and silent.

"Derek's not even there to be pissed at you," Stiles says, weakly, "And besides: Malia is there. Don't you want to see your daughter again?"

"Don't you?" Peter narrows his eyes. Stiles glares at him. "Do you think Scott will want you?" Peter says, cautiously.

Stiles' heart skips a beat and he shakes his head, "What do you mean _'want me?_ ' I'm his best friend."

"You _are_? Or you _were_? It didn't take him long to replace you; with Allison and Isaac and Kira and that new beta of his... what's his name?"

"Shut up," Stiles does a poor job of hiding how Peter's words hurt him.

"After all," Peter ignores him, "Your hands are coated in blood now and Scott did always have a thing for morals. Your eyes are blue and--"

"Scott doesn't care about that. He had no problem with Derek or Malia or--"

"Or the twins?" Peter finishes, snidely. "Will Scott ever trust you again? You've spent the last year with me, what if you've picked up some... bad habits?"

"I don't care," Stiles interrupts, "I'm going. If you're so scared and still pissed off at Scott then don't come, and certainly don't take it out on me, okay?"

Peter blinks, looking mildly pissed that Stiles has probably worked out his motives just like that. Then he shakes the expression away, "Oh, I'm coming with you, of course," he says as if there was never any doubt, "I just want you to be aware of the difficulties. Scott is an alpha. So am I, now. You're my beta."

 _'You're mine,'_ Peter's eyes tell him, _'You're mine and don't you forget it.'_

 

Stiles doesn’t admit it, but he can’t help feeling relieved that Peter won’t be ditching him for Canada.

He’s not sure why. It’s not like the other wolf staying makes him ecstatic and there are no butterflies in his stomach or anything stupid like that.

But he’s content.

(And if Peter looks a little bit saner for having made the decision, well, Stiles isn’t going to point it out to him.)

 

They’re still miles from New York when they are ambushed again. This time there are patrols guarding a set of fenlands; several groups with guns and arrows. They’re guarding the way forwards, and each and every way they turn there is another patrol.

“Split up?” Stiles is the one to suggest it, his instincts screaming at him to run. He doesn’t like the idea of splitting up, it never works out well in the horror movies, but it’s safer that only one of them gets captured as opposed to both. “Whichever one they catch: tough luck.”

Peter doesn’t look the least bit intimidated. If anything he looks a little bit bloodthirsty. Stiles feels his stomach churning as if he’s going to be sick from the anxiety because they are so _fucking close_.

So Stiles runs. They ditch their backpacks containing the last of their food under a convenient bush and take opposite directions. Stiles doesn’t know why Derek or Scott ever bothered with their four limb method of running when it’s much more freeing to run like a normal human. It also looks less stupid. Besides, Stiles is clumsy enough as it is without trying to get two more limbs involved in the mess.

There are shouts when a patrol spots him. Because of course. He tacks off north and then east, trying to lead them away.

His feet crash onto the leafy dirt, shoes still miraculously in one piece after crossing the width of America. He’s faster than the hunters, quicker and more agile and--

And he’s not as prepared. This is their territory.

Stiles is running one moment and stationary the next. Something closes around his ankle, tugging him up to the sky. He can’t do much more than let out a surprised shout as he is yanked into the air by a piece of wire trailing around his foot, pulling taunt and dangling him there like a hapless piece of meat.

 _Ow_ , he thinks, hanging upside down. The blood begins to rush to his head and he tries to remember how Scott got out of one of these traps last time.

“Hey!” the people chasing him call, “We’ve got him - damn - I don’t think he’s infected.”

“Then get him the hell out of my trap!”

Faces rock into view and Stiles flails, trying to work out how exactly he’s going to get out of this one. He’s meant to be the clever one, isn’t he?

“I think he’s a ‘ _were_. Someone get the Alpha to deal with this…”

They’re not a threat. They’re not trying to shoot and they’re probably the nicest people Stiles has met in the past year, including Peter Hale. And he might have even struck up conversation filled with sarcasm and cruelty because hanging out for so long with Peter hasn’t been good for him, but it’s at that moment that a howl echoes through the trees.

He goes still. It’s Peter. He knows it’s Peter, can feel his veins thrumming, knows that his eyes probably flare azure blue.

“Uh oh,” one of the patrol persons says, “Someone grab a tranquiliser--“ they’re still spitting their words out when Stiles moves. He doubles over, swinging upwards and letting his claws slice through the wire around his ankle. He drops with a thud to the ground, hitting his back hard.

Damn it - when Scott did this he made it look so easy.

The people around him are shouting, but his thoughts have gotten ridiculously simple again.

Get to Peter.

He rolls, leaping to his feet and shoving the first person he comes into contact with to one side. They go down heavily, but heart still beating as Stiles hops into the trees. With a hiss he flails onto one leg, trying to untangle the wire around his boot, but the thud of a dart hitting a tree next to him has him flinching over in alarm.

No time for that then.

He takes off running through the trees. His dad taught him how best to avoid bullets, so he zigs and he zags and he ducks, still heading in the general direction of Peter’s howl.

There are more sounds now. The sounds of gunfire and it’s so, so close Stiles pushes himself just a little bit faster. It’s not sensible at all, running towards the gunfire. It’s not anywhere in the near vicinity of good decisions, but Stiles hasn’t made a lot of those recently, so he’s not going to try to start now.

He’s a werewolf now, anyway. He’ll heal.

He bursts onto the hilltop, and he has less than seconds to take in the scene. There are at least five hunters, maybe more with a variety of weapons all aimed at where Peter stands looking defiant, but also resigned. He’s not shifted beyond the red eyes, hands held harmlessly out to the side.

There’s already a bullet smoking in his arm. Stiles can smell the acrid stench of what can only be wolfsbane, and there is a greying hunter who looks familiar sliding another into a gun and stepping forwards…

He doesn’t have time--

He takes in the hunter, the gun, the wolfsbane and _is that Scott_ but he doesn't have time to register that because the hunter who looks a lot like Chris fucking Argent is going to shoot Peter... shoot his alpha...

He's closest to Peter. The alpha hasn't noticed, or maybe he's being Stiles level of stupid and not even trying to move out of the way, either way it's easier to tackle the alpha out of the way of the bullet.

Peter's not expecting him to do that. He is normally like a rock, but right now it's easy for Stiles to knock him to the side. They tumble to one side, and something that burns slices across his arm. He hisses in pain, rolling several times with Peter until they slow, Stiles half lying on the older man.

"You idiot," he snarls, and before he can even stop to think if it’s a good idea he reaches down to kiss Peter as if he might be able to kiss some sense into him.

"I was only following example," Peter huffs, sounding annoyed but not angry. His tone is almost soft.

Almost caring, but not; because neither he nor Stiles do caring. Not anymore.

Possessive though? They can do that.

"You can't get shot," Stiles says, petulantly, "Where else would I get another alpha, huh?"

"Well..." Peter's smirk is bitter, "There's one right behind you."

Stiles rears back, and the movement pulls at his arm. It burns and he winces. Peter's up seconds later, poking and prodding at it, "Did it hit?" he asks, and Stiles has to bat his hands away.

"I'm fine," he hisses, "I'm fi--"

" _Stiles?_ "

He's on his feet and spinning around in seconds. He can't breathe. He can't breathe because behind him, eyes wide and mouth open from shock is his friend.

It's Scott.

He'd forgotten what his friend had looked like. Stiles traces the crooked jaw and soft brown eyes with new, sharper eyes. Scott looks just as shocked as Stiles feels.

"Scott--" a figure behind Scott steps forwards, interrupting the moment, "Scott... that's _Peter_..."

"Argent," Peter is on his feet, voice twisted in an unpleasant snarl.

"You're with Peter?" Scott sounds disgusted. Betrayed.

"I told you this was a bad idea," Peter sneers, and he doesn't even try to hide the fangs or red eyes.

"Peter, don't," Stiles snaps, and his veins thrum as his eyes flare blue; "You can't at least try to play nice? Keep your claws sheathed!"

"I thought you liked it when I used my claws," Peter's tone is lewd and Stiles can't stop the shiver that runs down his spine.

He's not prepared to exchange cruel and snide words with the alpha werewolf now. "Fuck you," Stiles snaps, but there is no venom to it.

Peter just croons: "Oh, sweetie, I thought we tried that. But if you want to go again them I'm game."

Stiles only half hears Scott's choking gasp for air. Peter smirks, and Stiles can't tear his eyes away from the alpha werewolf's smug face.

 _'I was right,'_ blue eyes mock him, _'Scott doesn't want you now you're dirty. Dirty and broken and bloodstained but I **chose** you; I **want** you."_

And when he looks back at his friend Peter is right. Scott looks visibly disgusted by their exchange, if not straight out disturbed by them.

By _Stiles_.

Scott looks _horrified_. It's the only word for it. Anger flares in Stiles, like flames sparking to life in a fire he'd long thought dead, "I spent the last year crossing the whole of the US to find you and this is how you greet me?" He throws his hands out to one side, feeling the thrum of power sinking through his veins.

"He bit you," Scott sounds saddened, but his voice still sounds so damn concerned and caring, "Peter _bit_ you."

"He saved my life," Stiles bites out, "He saved my life."

The space between them feels like miles. They're physically closer than they have been in months but Stiles has never felt so distant from Scott.

He thinks that's how it's going to be. Awkward and distant and Stiles is another wolf's beta now. He's _Peter's_ beta, _Peter's_ pawn, Peter's _pet_...

But then Scott breathes in, air rattling in his lungs, "I... I don't care you're a werewolf. I don't care... god, Stiles, I thought you were dead," he whispers, and his voice contains only a trace of bottled up emotions, "We left and you weren't with us... We all thought you were _dead_..."

His voice breaks and that's about the time Stiles decides 'screw it' and throws himself forwards.

Scott smells warm. Stiles buries his nose into Scott's shoulder and takes several deep breaths, trying to commit the scent to memory. He hears Scott laugh a little at his werewolf gained habit and hug him closer.

"Thank you," Scott whispers, and Stiles can almost feel Peter's smug smirk.

"I'm sorry," Stiles doesn't know why he's apologising. He's not sorry he's a werewolf, He's not sorry he's in Peter's pack. He's not sorry he's got blue eyes or bloodstained claws. He's alive when there were several long moments he thought (was _convinced_ ) that he would not live to see this moment. But he says it anyway, wrapping his arms around his best friend and brother. "I'm sorry, I took so long," he says, because that, at least, is not a lie.

 

Everything is _fine_.

Scott looks older. More rugged. More at peace with himself. He’s really come into his own as a leader and as an alpha. People look up to him; people Stiles has never met all stare at him with wide eyes because _that’s the Alpha’s best friend_ and it’s like it was back in Beacon Hills, only magnified.

Scott is obviously important. He’s obviously done great things, and will continue to do more. But at the moment he has attached himself to Stiles, not letting go as if he’s convinced that Stiles might fade away into nothing if he turns away for one second.

Peter follows behind at a sedate pace with Argent glaring daggers at him. Stiles squirms out of Scott’s grip for a moment to ask him, “What crawled up his ass and died?”

“A metal pole,” Peter remarks, examining his claws like a girl examining her nails, “And it went through his chest, actually.”

“Wow,” Stiles deadpans, “And just when I thought you couldn’t get any more sociopathic.”

“I’m so glad to have over-exceeded your expectations,” Peter smirks.

Scott looks uncomfortable about the exchange. Argent makes a big show of counting his wolfsbane bullets.

It turns out the rumours were true.

They did build a wall around New York.

Once inside Scott’s even more respected, if possible. It appears that werewolves and other supernatural creatures are known in such a contained space, and that while there was always some fear and uncertainty, their mutual enemies drew them together.

“STILES!”

He hears them before he sees them. There’s a loud shriek of joy and then the crowd gets bowled over as two people throw themselves at him. He staggers under their weight, breathing in deeply the scents he’s never been able to smell before.

“I knew it I knew it I knew it,” Lydia is murmuring over and over into his shoulder. Malia’s tall enough that she can wrap around him and the smaller red head which she does so, rubbing her face against his neck.

“What… how… you smell like Peter… why do you smell like my dad…” Malia can’t even punctuate her sentences properly, and the happy scents pouring off them both makes Stiles a little dizzy. The whole city makes his dizzy actually; he hasn’t been around so many sights and people since he got bitten but it’s a refreshing change.

“Ah, good, my daughter’s alive.” Peter couldn’t sound more enthusiastic if he tried. Malia lets go of Stiles, stepping back to frown at him almost petulantly. She narrows her eyes and looks from Stiles to Peter to Stiles and then back to Peter and then shrugs.

“Okay,” she says, “But let’s not do the father-daughter thing, okay, _Dad_?”

Peter actually cringes.

Lydia, still buried against Stiles, peers over his shoulder, “What’s he doing here?” she asks, “I thought we left him back in Beacon Hills.”

“You left me back in Beacon Hills as well,” Stiles reminds her, but it’s not angry, merely pointing out the obvious, “And Peter was preferable to the wendigo that tried to eat me.”

“Really?” Lydia sounds sceptical and disgusted, “ _Peter_?”

“He killed the zombies for me.”

“For the love of god,” Peter rolls his eyes, “They’re not zombies.”

“Huh,” Lydia’s look is appraising, “I’m glad I’m not the only one who knows that, but I’m not glad that it’s you who agrees with me.”

Scott fights his way back to them, Kira trotting along behind him and beaming widely, “Come on,” he gestures at Stiles and after a pause, at Peter as well, “I spoke to the other alphas to let them know we had two more wolves joining us…”

“Two more wolves?” Lydia raises her eyebrow into a thin arch, “Stiles…?”

“Yeah,” he says, flashing blue eyes. Malia doesn’t even appear surprised. “Peter… he… uh…” for a moment Lydia looks nervous, but then he peels away his shirt to show her his mottled silver shoulder.

“Hmmm,” she hums, “I like your eyes,” she remarks. It makes Stiles’ stomach churn because does she know what the blue eyes even mean…? A spark in her eyes tells him she does, that she knows intimately, “Red, yellow… but blue’s just pretty, right?”

And Stiles remembers why he loved this girl once.

 

“My dad’s dead,” he tells Scott, a day or so later. “I shot him.” Nobody had asked, but he feels like he has to tell his best friend. He’s told Melissa; had left the nurse to take some time to get over what she probably already knew, and now he tells Scott. They sit together in one of the taller buildings, looking out over the city.

It’s almost peaceful.

He turns to find Scott staring at him with sympathetic eyes. Stiles doesn’t need to say anything more because Scott already knows and understands.

“Peter shouldn’t try anything funny,” Stiles says, feeling like he should try and explain at least a little about the other alpha werewolf, “I mean… he’s not a good guy, he’s actually pretty awful, but we kept each other alive, y’know?”

“I didn’t know you wanted to be a werewolf,” Scott says, like it’s been bothering him for a while and he’s finally able to get it off his mind, “I would have given it to you; had you asked. Or maybe… I guess I should have offered. The bite is a _gift_ , right?” He chuckles, weakly.

And Stiles doesn’t know what he would have done had Scott offered him the bite. He almost, just for that instant, hates that Peter took that away, because now he’ll never know what his answer would have been.

His lips curl, feeling that old bitterness in him. His hand scratches at the cold flesh of his shoulder, feeling the rough, torn flesh beneath it, “I didn’t ask,” he says, “He didn’t offer. Peter is Peter, y’know? He takes. But it was the only chance I had left and I… It’s kind of hard to be pissed off when the guy saves your life.”

Scott looks at his shoulder like it’s still the open and bleeding wound it once was, “It scarred,” he says, almost pathetically.

“I got bitten,” Stiles says, “By a zombie,” he adds, in case Scott couldn’t work it out. The skin is rough around the bite mark of the alpha werewolf, imprinted over the teeth marks of the corpse who had bitten him. It's the only bite that didn't heal, the skin underneath it too dead already. It's mottled black and silver and it’s likely going to stay that way, “The bite could only heal so much,” Stiles adds, flexing his shoulder, “I’m lucky to be alive.”

Scott doesn’t say anything. Not: _‘I’m glad you’re alive too’_ or _‘I’m grateful to him for helping you’._ He just stares and looks so, so sad.

“You smell like him,” Scott says instead, “You smell like Peter.”

Stiles doesn’t know how he’s meant to respond to that.

“You used to smell like me. Like you were in my pack. But now… you’re in his pack, aren’t you?” Stiles presses his lips together and keeps quiet and so it’s Scott who eventually looks up, and there is a certainty to his brown eyes, “I’m not going to ask if you’re okay with it or something stupid like that. You’re clever. You know what you’re doing. And I don’t like it, but I trust you. And I pray that if you don’t rip his throat out with your own set of claws and fangs when he does something that you’ll step aside so Lydia can Molotov him.”

Stiles grins, “Don’t worry,” he says, “I’ve planned for every contingency.” He doesn’t say how Peter has a plan (because Peter always has a plan), he doesn’t say how he’s sorry Scott’s lost him to Peter. Scott’s less of a wolf than Peter anyway, and he’d forgotten about that. Scott doesn’t care about pack or rules. Scott’s never cared about that.

He’s a true alpha, after all.

And Stiles is his best friend, another wolf’s beta or not.

 

Everything is _fine_.

Too fine.

Stiles paces the walls, filled with a restless energy that used to be used up travelling and running for his life. He’s antsy and he keeps jumping with suspicious eyes at every innocent person who walks past.

 _‘It will be okay,’_ Scott says.

 _‘You’ll settle in,’_ Malia reassures.

Lydia’s the only one who stares at him like he’s a ghost; like he’s not really there. She’s the only one who presses close and whispers _‘I knew you weren’t dead: I would have screamed.’_ shortly followed by _‘wherever you go, I’m there for you’._

Stiles thinks he loves Lydia now more than ever.

He and Peter have taken to sleeping in separate rooms, mostly because Stiles couldn’t take the scent of Scott’s emotions when he saw them together. His friend doesn’t mean it, but it still makes Stiles’ gut churn awkwardly. His nightmares have crept back into his head and that only makes him twice as jumpy as before.

He can’t stay here, he realises after two months.

 _They_ can’t stay here.

 

Peter finds him lounging in his bed, half asleep to the scent of his alpha.

“Let me guess,” Peter drawls, “You want sex. And here I thought you had my daughter for that.”

“You know if I didn’t know better I’d say you were worried. Scared she might outclass her old man?”

Peter growls, “Go away, Stiles,” he says, turning to where his few clothes are scattered, “I’m not doing this with you now.”

Stiles flails a little, caught up in the bed sheets before he manages to end up on his feet, “It’s a little late to be worried for my virtue,” he matches Peter’s best sneer for cruelty, “I thought you wanted me like this? Wanted me to have the bite. Wanted me to be your beta.”

He steps forwards angrily into Peter’s space and the older man shoves him away. Stiles stumbles, then surges back.

“It’s like you’ve given up,” Stiles snaps, “It’s pathetic.”

“I don’t give up,” he finally gets a rise out of Peter; “I’m a patient man, Stiles. I’ve waited years for my revenge; I can wait a little longer.”

“What am I: your pawn?” Stiles snarls, fangs forming around his words, “A toy to be wrestled over between you and Scott?”

“I always considered you more of a prize, myself--“

Stiles tries to lash out but Peter catches it. He always catches it, twisting Stiles’ arm and slamming him up against a wall like he had done once before, a car trunk pressing up against him.

“Tsk,” Peter says, “I thought we had a talk about this anger of yours.”

“You don’t get it, do you?” Stiles huffs, Peter’s claws curling uncomfortably into his wrists, “You and Scott… you’re like two dogs trying to mark their territory. If I’m a prize, then what you don’t get is I’ve already been won.”

Peter stiffens. Stiles is keenly aware of every single point of contact between them.

He keeps talking, finding the words, “You’re the one that bit me, after all.”

“Then--“ Peter is now the one to sound angry. Annoyed. With a growl he spins Stiles around until they are face to face, eyes to eyes. Red gazes into azure blue, “Then why are you crawling back on your belly to him when you’re _mine_? I _made_ you. I _claimed_ you. I didn’t keep you alive all this way for Scott, now, did I?”

“I know that,” Stiles snaps back, not lowering his gaze, “Then only question is did you do that for _me_ , or did you do it for _you_?”

Peter growls. It’s low and possessive and it sends a shiver down Stiles’ spine. He arches slightly, pressing closer to the warm flesh and hard muscle. “And here…” Peter muses, “Here I thought you were a wasted investment.”

Things get a little blurred from there. The conversation pretty much ends because Stiles has made his point clear. He’s not sure when or how his mind shifted, but he’s Peter’s. _Peter’s_ beta, _Peter’s_ pack, _Peter’s_.

It should freak him out. It shouldn’t be as reassuring as it is.

Peter’s his too, Stiles thinks, sinking fangs into the older man’s neck. Peter is his too, even if he doesn’t realise it yet.

And afterwards, when Stiles is seconds from slipping into sleep and Peter looks like he’s content to just lie there and plot the evil plans Stiles knows he has, he rolls over, glancing at his alpha.

“So,” he says, because that’s always the best way to broach conversations, “I’ve been thinking.”

“That’s dangerous,” Peter says, as expected.

Stiles grins. He doesn’t say anything, just waits.

Eventually Peter sighs and baits him, “Thinking about what?”

“Well…” he leans closer, nuzzling his alpha, “I was wondering what Canada was like at this time of year.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for: Dubious consent because let’s face it, Peter practically invented that tag. Straight out non-consent in some part in regards to receiving the werewolf bite. Stiles says ‘no’ but perceiving him as lying, Peter bites him anyway in a life or death situation. Peter manhandles Stiles a lot, and threatens him. Stiles does the same, and attempts to kill Peter at least three times. Maybe more; I stopped counting. There’s also mentions of depression and suicidal thoughts along with a reckless streak a mile wide. Also stuff that usually occurs in zombie apocalypses: blood, gore, death, murder, even some cannibalism including humans eating other humans. If there’s anything I’ve missed let me know.


End file.
